


A Dragon of the Watch

by Copperonthetongue



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alliser Thorne is rolling in his grave, Castle Black, Dragonriders, Dragons, Drogon - Freeform, Exile, Families of Choice, Family, Family Feels, Friendship, Ghost is a good boy, Grief, Grief/Mourning, Honor, How to Train your....cousin?, Jon Snow Knows Something, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Jon goes to Valyria, Lord Commander, Lord of Light - Freeform, Multi, Nights Watch, Oaths, Old Magic, Old Valyria, Other, Politics, Post Season 8, Protective Tormund Giantsbane, R'hllor - Freeform, Sad Dragon is sad., Siblings, Survivor Guilt, Targaryen, Targaryen Dynasty, The Long Night, Warg Jon Snow, Wolves, Worldbuilding, alternate season 9, and everywhere else too, black brothers, filling in those plot holes, ghost - Freeform, rhaegal - Freeform, the doom of valyria, the king is still in the north
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2020-03-13 11:11:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 29
Words: 77,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18939760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Copperonthetongue/pseuds/Copperonthetongue
Summary: When a dragon appears in the sky above Castle Black, nobody knows what to do about it besides hope that it isn’t hungry.





	1. Wilmot

When the monstrous black and red dragon was first sighted in the sky winging its way towards Castle Black, it caused a panic the likes of which had never been seen before amongst the Black Brothers, but that was nothing compared to the absolute chaos that ensued when the wretched thing dropped down from the sky and landed with a bone-chilling shriek atop the Wall itself.

 

There were 267 men of the Watch at Castle Black, and half again that number of Free Folk, but none of them had the first idea about what to do about the dragon. Aside from pissing down their own legs in terror, that was. There was great deal of argument,of course, but there always was when Lord Commander Snow was away because, while the men of the Watch would sooner cut out their tongues than argue with their Lord Commander, they had no such trouble bickering amongst themselves. Add in dragon-generated panic and the situation went from emergency to absolute disaster in very short order indeed.

 

To be fair, though, even in the best of times a fully grown dragon was a trifle more than any of the men within the castle could have been reasonably expected to deal with alone. Which was why, after an eternity of vehement argument and shouting the problem of the dragon on the Wall wad unceremoniously dropped into Wilmot Redrun’s loudly protesting lap. Much to his displeasure. Unfortunately for him he now found himself the most senior member of the Watch in the castle, purely by rate of attrition rather than merit. Wilmot was a simple man with simple needs but regardless of how the duty came to him it was up to him and him alone to at least attempt to do something to keep the peace and prevent the Watch from falling into chaos and ruin. 

So deal with it he had and that made him the poor unfortunate bastard stuck sitting atop the Wall alone, teeth chattering and body shaking, for once, not from the cold. Staring at the bloody big buggering dragon which had perched itself atop the Wall like an irritated cat. Its long tail swishing and flicking restlessly as it watched the tree line expectantly, almost as if the beast is waiting for something.

Or someone.

The beast turned its murderous red eyes on Wilmot every now and again where he sat motionless by the Watch Fire, torch in one hand and a healthy skin of the most powerful moonshine Brother Gwyn has ever produced in the other. The worst part was that all Wilmot could do when it happened was hold as still as he possibly could and pray to the Old Gods and the New, and any other god that might have felt like bloody listening that the dragon wasn’t hungry, because there was fuck-all he could do about it if it was and of all the ways to die he’d ever heard of, death by dragon was the one he liked least. 

 

He’d see dragons before —but only ever at a distance. Never so close. Close enough to feel the heat of the creature and smell the copper and sulfur reek of its breath. It was gigantic and absolutely terrifying at such close range. More than a few Black Brothers, including Wilmot himself, had seen it in action at the Battle of Winterfell. Had seen the terrible damage the creature was capable of doing with their own two eyes, and, for Wilmot’s part, even if he hadn’t, he would have still been terrified. Every day more and more tales filtered in from the South about what the Dragon Queen had done to King’s Landing before the Lord Commander had put a knife in her black, wicked, heart for her crimes, ending her reign forever. If the dragon decided to raze Castle Black to the ground as it had the Red Keep, Wilmot was certain down to his bones that there wasn’t a damned thing any of them could do about it. Wilmot is stuck sitting sits his lonely watch on the wall regardless. If the dragon makes to attack, it will be Wilmot’s job to light the signal fire to warn the other castles what was coming, for all the good it would do them.

 

The Watchfires might have made everyone else feel better about the situation, but to Wilmot, it’ was a piss-poor plan indeed because he wasn’t feeling particularly fucking comforted at all. Probably because he was the one who was stuck on top of the Wall with a full-grown fucking dragon and a skin of rotgut for company. If Wilmot had ever had a worse day than he couldn’t recall it. As he watched the dragon, Wilmot wished for the thousandth time and with all his heart that Lord Snow were in the castle, but as his long departed mum had always said, ‘If wishes were horses then beggars would ride.’

The Lord Commander was still beyond the Wall and not due back for another week. They’d sent out a man to fetch him back the moment the dragon was spotted of course, but Wilmot had served at the Wall for over twenty years and he knew that it would take the rangers at least two days simply to find Commander Snow and then another day on top of that to bring him back early.  
So until then, Wilmot was going to be stuck on dragon duty.  
As he watched the dragon’s claws flex and send chunks of ice crumbling down into the snow below the Wall Wilmot found that he almost missed the wights.  
As if the beast had somehow heard him, the black dragon suddenly swung its head around to glare at Wilmot disdainfully, lifting its upper lip in a half-snarl that showed just how many teeth were in that horror of a mouth. Gods help him, but Wilmot hated dragons. He truly did. There was no part of the creatures that wasn’t the stuff of nightmares. They were terrible from snout to tailtip and as if how they looked and their tremendous size weren’t terrifying enough on its own, no, the gods also made the thing breathe fire. 

 

The gods really were cunts, Wilmot thought to himself. One look at a real dragon was all the proof that the Wilmot needed that the Targaryens had all been madder than shithouse rats. They’d RODE these things, had flew on their backs and kept them as pets and let them around their children as if they were just slightly oversized dogs. It beggared belief.  
Wilmot had seen Commander Snow on dragonback with his own eyes, had watched the man raining dragonfire down on the dead to buy them all time to retreat during the Battle of Winterfell alongside the Dragon Queen. Wilmot knew that the dragon the Lord Commander had rode then was dead, that it was felled by Euron Greyjoy on its way back to Dragonstone. Which meant that there was only one dragon left in all the world— the largest of the three. Drogon. The very creature that had destroyed King’s Landing. The Dragon Queen’s own personal mount. The thing even matched her house colors. 

As Wilmot stares into the dragon’s spiteful red eyes, he sends up another prayer to the gods to hurry things along because Lord Commander Snow is the only one who might be able to do something about the creature on the wall — aside from shitting in his his own trousers in fear, that was, because Wilmot already had that task well in hand. No help necessary.

 

Wilmot bear jumped out of his skin as the black dragon’s head snapped abruptly away from Wilmot and back to the wall itself, swift as a striking viper for all its great size, and when Wilmot followed the dragon’s line of sight to try to make out what had caught its attention, he realized that the dragon’s gaze was riveted to the tree line expectantly. To Wilmot’s surprise, it wasn’t half a breath later that he saw a group of riders come out of the brush and beat of all he could see the telltale bulk of the Lord Commander’s cloak on the rider at the very front of the column. Lord Commander Snow was back, and Wilmot had never been gladder of anything in all his born days.  
Unfortunately, he didn’t have long to savor his gladness because the dragon chose that exact moment to let out an ear-splitting screech and leap from the Wall into the air. The backdraft from its massive wings sending snow and ice flying into Wilmot’s face and eyes like a thousand shards of glass until he hid his face in his cloak in self defense. It only lasted a few moments, but by the time he lowered his cloak again, the dragon was already coming in to land in the pristine snow beyond the Wall. Wilmot’s heart leapt into his throat as he watched the Lord Commander raises his hand and give the signal to his men to retreat to the tree line before dismounting his horse and giving it a firm slap on the rump, sending it running for the trees as well. Which left the Lord Commander to face the black dragon alone and on foot. Wilmot couldn’t help but drop his jaw in pure incredulity.

Bloody fucking Targaryens. They really were barking mad, every last one of them. There was just no other explanation. But Targaryen madness aside, it didn’t make watching what was happening on the other side of the Wall any easier on Wilmot. Mad or not, that was his Lord Commander down there facing that monster alone, and if it decided to turn on him to avenge its dead rider, Wilmot knows that there isn’t a thing any of them can do to help him. No matter how much they might want to

 

Drogon had destroyed an entire fleet, a city and all its armaments too within the span of a single hour, and Castle Black didn’t have so much as a single scorpion, for all the good it would do them, Since even a hundred hadn’t saved King’s Landing from the Dragon Queen.br /> The dragon approached the Lord Commander Snow at speed, and for a moment, Wilmot thought that the Commander was done for, but to his shock, Commander Snow didn’t move so much as a step as the dragon charged dead at him before pulling up short at the very last minute to roar at him rather than trample him.

 

It roared twice at full volume right into the Commander’s face and even as far away as Wilmot was the sound the dragon made had his ears ringing like a bell and the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. Wilmot couldn’t even imagine being in the Lord Commander’s place and still standing his ground, but that was exactly what the other man did—-refusing to take so much as a single step back. 

 

After a moment the black dragon seemed to realize that Snow wasn’t going to back down, and to Wilmot’s breathless amazement, the dragon ever so slowly lowered that massive horned head and pressed its nose against the Lord Commander’s chest. It looked for all the word to Wilmot as if the dragon were sniffing him—-and it must have liked whatever it was that it smelled because it calmed itself at last once the Lord Commander took off his glove and started stroking its massive black-scaled snout.  
Wilmot watched the the pair of them in disbelief. Man and dragon standing peacefully in a field of white snow.   
It looked to Wilmot like the Watch had just gained a new member, and handily enough, their newest recruit was already wearing black.


	2. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who has who, exactly?

It all started with a dream, but the dream had been unlike anything Jon had ever experienced before; he’d been having wolf dreams for years, dreams where afterwards he’d wake sweating and aching with the taste of blood in his mouth. He knew those dreams, and he also knew whose eyes he was seeing through on those restless nights and it had never troubled him but the dreams he was having now were another matter entirely.

 

It always started the same way; he was back in the throne room in King’s Landing, and it is much as he remembers it being the last time he’d seen it, but there’s no sign of Dany, now and no blood on the snowy flagstones, and the Iron Throne sits once more on the raised dias, unmelted and strangely ominous. 

Jon is always alone at first, it’s just himself, the throne and the falling snow but when he turns around, it is Drogon he sees, his red eyes intent but hauntingly calm, and as the dragon stares at him and he finds himself powerless to resist the urge to approach it regardless of the terrible dread that fills him. He tries not to of course, but no matter how he struggles he can’t seem to make his feet obey, and so he ends up looking the creature in the eyes, close enough that he can smell the coppery heat of the dragon’s breath. 

 

Drogon watches, he watches Jon struggle against the call without a hint of pity in his scarlet eyes, and while he doesn’t make a single sound out loud, Jon can hear him anyway, a voice in his head that resonates within him so powerfully that Jon finds himself afraid that it will shake him apart from the inside. 

 

“ You know who you are.” the dragon says, and Jon can feel his eyes begin to burn and ache, tears trickling down his face only to evaporate a moment later in the face of the ever increasing heat coming from Drogon’s body. 

“Wake up.” The black dragon hisses, and its a command that never fails to jolt Jon into immediate and heart pounding consciousness , and once he actually IS awake Jon finds that he’s filled to bursting with the urge to return to Castle Black, an instinct so powerful that it steals the breath from his lungs and gives him no peace until he obeys its call. He gives in, despite the looks of confusion and concern on the faces of his men. Yet they don’t question him, not a single one. 

 

Jon doesn’t stop again until he reaches the edge of the forest outside the castle, and when he spots Drogon he can’t even pretend to be surprised. The dragon leaps into the air and it sends a frisson of terror down his spine, freezing him for a heartbeat before he sends his men back to the trees for their own safety. 

 

He dismounts and with a good slap sends his horse along with them. If the dragon is there to kill him, there’s no reason that anybody else need die with him. He alone has earned Drogon’s fury, because it was his hand that took the life of the black dragon’s mother. He can’t fault the creature for wanting vengeance, he would do the same. Jon had been certain that his life was forfeit the moment he’d put his blade into Dany’s heart, and every day since he’s wondered why the dragon spared him and vented his fury on the Iron Throne instead. 

 

It seemed as if he was about to get his answer, because no sooner had the dragon landed than it charged him...and there was no Dany on its back now to rein it in. Jon was on his own now, but he would be damned before he died a coward. He stood his ground, even when Drogon roared in his face so loudly Jon was near certain his ears were going to bleed. 

Jon fully expected to be eaten or burned to a crisp, and so he could only stare in numb shock when instead, the dragon delicately nosed at his chest, careful not to knock him off balance; and before Jon knew what was happening he was already removing his gloves and dropping them into the snow so that he could stroke the dragon’s pebbly black hide bare handed. 

 

He was so focused on stroking Drogon, enraptured by his tiny chirps that he nearly leapt out of his skin when the dragon huffed at him quietly and used its long neck and one massive wing to pull him in, promptly curling around him so tightly that Jon couldn’t even feel the cold anymore. 

 

It was absolutely terrifying, gentle though he was, Drogon was massive and even a light shove was painful ...and while he was doing his best not to panic Jon’s confusion wasn’t helping matters. It’s all well and good to tell yourself not to panic but its easier said than done when you’re being shoved about by something the size of a dragon. 

 

Jon gets another nasty surprise when the dragon pokes its head beneath its wing, giving him a firm nudge with it’s nose and sending him toppling back into the pocket of space between the dragon’s side and the soft, vulnerable tissue of it’s wing. Suddenly, Jon realizes that this must be how dragons carried their young when they were too small and delicate to fly but they needed to be moved or protected from inclement weather. His suspicion is confirmed as the dragon begins moving, wing tucked tight against its side. 

 

Just when he thinks the situation can’t possibly be worse, Drogon proves him wrong because from the sudden, nauseating shift of position Jon realizes with grim certainty that the dragon is actually climbing the wall, using one gripping wing and it’s teeth and hind claws and clutching him close in the other. As his stomach begins to do backflips Jon wonders if the dragon would be offended if he sicked-up, he certainly hoped not because as they lurched and rocked as the dragon climbed Jon came to the rapid realization that he might not have a choice. Bugger. 

 

Thankfully his fears were all for naught because they seemed to reach the top with surprising speed, and once they had, Drogon settled himself into a far more reasonable (and not stomach churning ) position and apparently decided that it was time for a long nap.

 

Jon was still trapped of course but at least he wasn’t in danger of vomiting on his dragon. 

 

Time seemed to skid to an abrupt halt as Jon realized what he’d done. He’d just called Drogon *his* dragon. Only in the privacy of his own mind, but it still unsettled him deeply. The idea of it was alien to Jon, but now that he’d had it, it just wouldn’t go away. Drogon had always been Dany’s dragon, not his. Jon could barely imagine anyone else on the black dragon’s back, much less himself because he’d been awkward enough on the smaller of the two, who according to Dany had always been the more phlegmatic of the three while Drogon had a notoriously short temper. Jon’s relationship with Rhaegal had only barely begun to form when the dragon had been killed, so even if he WANTED Drogon, Jon hadn’t the first clue what he was supposed to do with a damned dragon..much less THIS dragon, who was considered Balerion The Black Dread reborn. How could he ever hope to control a dragon like Drogon?

 

Dragons didn’t even like the North, or so Dany had claimed when Jon had asked her....but now Drogon seemed to have decided that he wanted to be near Jon more than he wanted to be warm. Even if Jon put all of those many, many concerns aside, how exactly was he going to explain any of this to his men? Where would he even PUT a dragon?! What would he feed it?

 

Sansa was going to kill him, and if she didn’t then Tyrion likely would and good Gods, what was Tormund going to say? Jon’s thoughts seemed to go around and around in an ever increasing circle of panic, but at the root of it all was the truth Jon didn’t want to touch, the wound in him that hadn’t even begun to heal. 

 

In his heart of hearts, Jon believes that he can’t have a dragon because he’d chosen ice instead of fire. He’d left that part of himself behind when he’d taken the life of the woman he loved in the name of the greater good, he sacrificed his own happiness for the safety of the people who she would trample in her never ending quest to right all the wrongs in the world and remake it in her own image. 

Jon had murdered his lover, his own aunt, he was an oath breaker, a kinslayer and now her dragon, her last living child shows up at the edge of the world to well and truly set the cat amongst the ravens and all he can think to himself is that he isn’t worthy. That he has no right to take THIS from Dany too. He’d stolen her life, her future, and now it seemed that he’d stolen her dragon as well. 

 

It wasn’t right, NONE of this was right, he didn’t want this, any of this, he never had..but yet again it seemed that what Jon himself wanted mattered bugger all, because wanted or not he now has a dragon and there really isn’t much he can do about it. Fire and Ice, Stark and Targaryen. 

 

How in the hell is he supposed to balance the two? If power could corrupt someone as good as Dany had been, how could Jon himself ever hope to resist? He was just a man, an ordinary man and that’s all he’s ever wanted to be.

 

Ordinary men can’t have dragons however, and Jon most certainly has a dragon. 

 

After a few long moments he gives in to the heat and the steady, soothing drumming beat of Drogon’s heart against his cheek, and just before he drifts off into an exhausted sleep he has the curious thought that perhaps that he has it all backwards. Jon doesn’t have a dragon, a dragon has HIM. 

 

Outside, as Drogon allows his own eyes to drift shut for a well earned rest, the dragon smiles. The boy wasn’t hopeless after all, it seemed.


	3. Drogon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Drogon returns to King's Landing to reclaim his rider, he discovers that he isn't where he left him.

To say that Drogon had been irritated when he’d flown back to the burned city only to discover that Jon Snow was no longer within it would be a vast understatement. He’d been more than irritated, he’d been positively infuriated. This was where Drogon had left him, and so this was where Jon Snow should have remained until Drogon returned from caring for what remained of his mother to reclaim him. 

The city was what he’d desired, was it not? Why would he abandon it once it was his? It made no logical sense whatsoever to Drogon to take a territory and then immediately abandon it to be claimed but whoever wanted it. 

This city and all within it belonged to THEM, not those who cowered within its walls now, Drogon had worked very hard to claim it, he had sacrificed a great deal to do so, the hunger for it and the cursed chair that Drogon had melted within it had consumed his mother, day and night until that desire and her grief had destroyed her from the inside out….and Jon Snow had just walked away as if none of it mattered. As if SHE had not mattered, as if Drogon did not matter.

It hurt Drogon’s pride more than he liked admitting, but he also suspected that what sent Jon Snow fleeing back to the frozen north was the same thing that sent Drogon back to Valyria to lay his mother’s broken body beside those of her ancestors and his own. 

 

Grief is a powerful thing.

 

Drogon had known that his mother was lost forever from the moment she’d commanded him to burn the screaming humans who were trying to flee their presence, he’d done as she asked, of course, he’d burned them and their stone houses as they’d wailed for mercy, he’d rained fire and death down from the sky upon them because his mother, his rider, his reason for being had asked it of him…but it had not been his desire, and the doing had snuffed the last flickering remnants of light out inside his mother, who had once shone as brightly as the sun itself. 

 

Drogon had felt the moment her life ended, their bond snapped like a brittle bone and her soul had departed her body, free at last from the prison of her broken mind. It was a quick death, a merciful one, but that did not make her loss any less painful to bear.

 

She was his mother, and when he saw her laying there in the snow, her fire gone out forever it had wounded him more terribly than he had ever imagined he could be…and even wailing his grief had not given him any relief from its weight.

 

Drogon had known what Jon Snow intended when he’d stopped him outside the castle. He’d seen it in the man’s sad dark eyes, smelled his pain, his grief.

Drogon had understood, had known that what was to come was necessary….and so he had turned aside and let him pass, though it broke his heart to do it.

Drogon’s mother was ill, her mind was sick and Drogon knew that the woman she had once been would have understood what must be done. The mother he remembered would have wanted it this way, would have wanted to protect her people from what would come if she were allowed to reign as her poisoned mind and heart dictated. 

 

She had not wanted to be her father, and Drogon had failed her with his obedience because that was precisely what she had become. Her will and his own love for her had been too great…and so Drogon had allowed her to become what she hated most. Drogon could not bring himself do what was necessary,….but Jon Snow could, and so Drogon had guiltily let him pass, knowing what was to come, certain in the knowledge that it was what his mother would have wanted were she in her right mind….but it had not made her loss and his own decision any easier to bear. 

 

It had taken every bit of the black dragon’s self-control not to kill Jon Snow for what he’d done, instinct drove the dragon to punish, to hurt, to burn the threat away….and so he had, Drogon had turned his fury on the true threat, onto the accursed iron chair that had been the cause of so much grief and suffering. If not for that chair, he and his mother would have been flying over Essos, the sun on their backs and his mother’s joyous laughter ringing in Drogon’s ears. Happy. 

Free.

Instead, they were here, all because of the poisonous throne that had destroyed the Targaryen line almost entirely. It had been forged by hunger, by ambition and by fury at its creation. The dragonsong that bound it together was a dark one, Drogon could see it, sense it, but though it was wicked past beating now it had not been evil at its start, no…..m over time it had been slowly twisted and tainted by the Targaryen blood that its sharp edges had drawn over the three centuries the family had reigned from it. 

 

Each of the rulers that had claimed it had spilled their blood onto the throne’s ever hungry edges and in the doing they had unknowingly left something of themselves behind within it. Baelor and his single-minded obsession, Maegor, and his fury and endless hunger for power, Jaeherys and his desire to defend, to protect. Aerys and his paranoia, good and evil, dark and light, Robert’s greed and Joffrey’s cruelty and pride. 

 

It was all still there, waiting for its next victim. Aegon had said that no man should ever sit easily on the Iron Throne, and to make it so he had left the edges of the blades he and His dragon forged it from sharp…but Drogon knew now that Aegon had forgotten the power that lay in blood, and so year after year, century after century, drop by drop the magic Aegon had unthinkingly set in motion had fed on the spilled blood of his descendants, and slowly it had grown bloated with power, becoming a malignant, hateful thing that knew only hunger, a fat spider waiting for prey that inspired the same poisonous hunger in all who beheld it, warping and twisting their minds until they broke under the strain, some more quickly than others.

 

The throne was the cause of all their suffering, and so Drogon had destroyed it, though it had taken every scrap of power within him to do it. The cursed thing had fought him, fought him so fiercely that he had feared he would run out of strength before the magic that held it together came apart. 

He had nearly given up, the magic was just too strong for him to break but from the corner of his eye Drogon had seen Jon Snow, he saw the fear in his eyes. The boy was the last Targaryen, the last kin Drogon had left, at least for now…and the fire inside him had blazed high once more. Drogon would not let this evil thing twist Jon as it had Daenerys and her ancestors. 

 

He would not fail his mother again. 

 

The throne and the magic that had poisoned it came apart beneath the cleansing fury of Drogon’s fire, and it melted at last. 

 

Drogon had not taken the time to savor his victory, he had gathered up his mother’s body and fled, he was weak, his fire nearly spent and his heart had been terribly sore…he’d been certain that Jon would be well enough on his own now that the throne was gone and unable to work its wicked magic on those around it. He should have been safe. A man did not need a crown or a throne to be a King, and Jon was not only the rightful heir, but he had also now proven his worthiness to rule. 

 

Clearly, Drogon had overestimated the sensibility of humans once again, because when he had returned he had been greeted with no Jon, only a nosy, half-mad mageling ruling from the position that should have been Jon’s alone and no sign of Jon Snow himself anywhere. 

 

While Drogon did enjoy the panic his presence atop the broken tower of the Red Keep had caused, it wasn’t why he was there, entertaining though it may have been. He was there for Jon Snow, his rider, his family, and Jon Snow was not there. 

 

Drogon had a sinking suspicion of where his errant rider was, however, and it did NOT make him happy in the least. He hated snow, he hated the cold, but if that was where his rider was then that was where Drogon must go. 

Targaryens really were the most infuriating creatures.


	4. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a dragon on her wall, and that means Sansa must do something about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This section is a bit more lighthearted than usual, but the reason for Drogon’s unusual level of patience will be explained further along in the story.

The day began with the terrifying sound of a dragon’s scream. Sansa had still been in the process of dressing herself for the day, a dozen tasks waiting to be done already on her mind when she’d heard the first roar. Her blood had run cold at the sound, and when she’d rushed, hands already shaking, to her window and looked out it had been with a heavy heart and churning belly that she beheld the hulking beast that now perched itself ominously on the newly rebuilt outer wall.

 

It was just as awful as she remembered it being. 

 

Arya had been enthralled by the Dragon Queen’s pair of dragons, but all Sansa had ever felt when she looked at them was fear. This was an enemy she could not fight, a threat she could not meet. She had breathed a sigh of relief when word had come that the green was dead, and she had hoped to hear the same of the black in due time …but word had not come, and then Jon had killed the Dragon Queen, sparing them all from her reign and the creature had flown away with her corpse and Sansa had felt like she could breathe again. 

 

She had never been prouder of Jon than she had when she’d heard what he’d done to Daenerys Targaryen, Jon had chosen wisely, he had done what was necessary to protect the North. Daenerys Targaryen was a threat, as long as she breathed she would be an axe hanging over all their necks and Jon had removed that threat, at last, freeing himself from whatever spell the woman had put him under. 

When it mattered, Jon had done what was right, just as their father would have done. 

 

Sansa had felt a tiny twinge of guilt for her part in matters but she had pushed it quickly from her mind and barred it from her heart, she had only ever done what was necessary to protect the North, to protect their family and Jon would have been a better King than the Mad King’s daughter ever could, Sansa had known that the moment he’d shared his secret with them. It was the moment she had begun planning to put him on the Iron Throne instead of Daenerys. Jon had gifted them a better option, and she would be a fool not to take it. 

 

Sansa Stark was anything but foolish.

 

She’d laid her trap and Tyrion had walked right into it, just as she’d known he would. It was hard to reconcile the blind man he had become with the canny man of her memories, but the fool in him had served her purpose far better than than the canny man ever could have. Sansa pulled the strings, and Tyrion had danced just as she had anticipated that he would. 

 

Sometimes, late at night when it was only Sansa and her hounds and the crackle of her hearth fire she wondered if this was how Cersei had felt in King’s Landing when she’d been a child, when Sansa had been a helpless little butterfly caught in the other woman’s web of plots and lies, forced to dance to whatever tune the Queen had played. 

 

If it was, Sansa almost wished Cersei had lived long enough to find herself on the other end for once. Almost, that was, because Sansa was not a fool…Cersei Lannister would be a threat as long as she drew breath, the other woman’s death was the only thing Sansa had ever wanted from Cersei Lannister. Only when she was dead would Sansa ever truly be safe. 

 

Plans within plans within plans.

,  
It had been unfortunate that Jon had ended up back at Castle Black once more, but in her heart of hearts, Sansa was glad of that too. It had been a perfect outcome. With Jon once more a man of the Watch, and with Bran ruling from King’s Landing and Arya gone as well….far away from Sansa, where her faces and her threats could no longer upend Sansa’s plans the way had been clear for Sansa to have what she wanted. 

 

Her crown. Her kingdom. Her freedom. 

 

Never again would she be a pawn in another players game, she would never be bought or sold, she would never be vulnerable again. She was Queen of an independent North, scion of a family of legendary heroes. No one would dare plot against her now, at least no one with any sense. The rest of the North would tear them apart if they tried. 

 

Now, as Sansa stared at the screaming black dragon on her wall her heart turned to ice in her chest and her legs went weak with terror. This was a foe she could not best, the only person who might have had a chance was leagues away at the Wall, by Sansa’s own design. 

 

She was caught in a trap of her own making, and the bitter irony of it didn’t escape her notice. 

 

Sansa was a Queen in her own right, she was a Stark, she would not die cowering like a rat in a hole the way Cersei had. She would face her end if that was what this was with her head high and her back straight. 

 

Fuck dragons, and this dragon in particular. 

 

As Sansa descended from her tower, hair still unbound and dressed only in her thin white nightshift and her heavy wolf fur robes she stepped into a hornets' nest of panic and screams, the halls of Winterfell were full of frightened people, women wept and men shouted, children were hiding behind their mothers and wailing. It was a deafening cacophony.

 

Sansa walked past it all, and silence trailed in her wake as if her calm was contagious. Her people were watching, and Sansa would not allow them to see her fear, though it howled inside her like a hungry wolf the same as their own. 

 

Stepping out into the cold of the bailey, Sansa didn’t even feel the chill of the snow beneath her bare feet, her gaze was fixed on the dragon that crouched shrieking atop her wall, and it was all she could see or hear as she marched towards it with long, sure, strides. 

 

She was Sansa Stark, Queen in the North, the daughter of Eddard Stark and his lawful wife. She had survived Cersei Lannister and all her plots and Ramsey Bolton and his cruelty and by all the Old Gods and New she would not be cowed by this dragon or any other. Not now, not ever. Let it burn her to ash if it pleased, but it would leave her people in peace if it took Sansa’s last breath to see it so. 

 

“THAT IS ENOUGH.” Sansa snarled as she drew close to the beast, standing before it, well within the range of both flame and fang, her voice pitched to carry in as close an imitation of her lady mother as she could manage.

 

The dragon stopped mid-roar, abruptly turning its huge head to stare at Sansa with wide red eyes. Sansa wanted to run more than she had ever wanted anything in her life, but she didn’t, she stood still as stone in front of the dragon and kept speaking. 

 

“ Jon is not here, Dragon.” Sansa shouts up at the wide-eyed black dragon. Her heart is beating in her throat like a rabbit’s but she does not dare show it. If she flinches she will die, she can sense it somehow, knows it deep in her bones, as sure as winter snow…if she shows the dragon that she is afraid, everyone in Winterfell will die for her temerity…and so Sansa goes on, her voice growing stronger as she speaks. 

 

“He’s gone to the Wall, so if it is Jon you seek…go find him there and cease this awful howling!” As she looks up at it, Sansa wonders if this is what it’s like to be mad, shouting at a full-grown dragon like an errant child. However, mad or not it somehow seems to be working…because the creature deflates a little as she scolds it, and if she didn’t know better, Sansa might almost say that it seemed embarrassed. There was nothing for it but to go on as she had begun. 

 

“You’re frightening my people and disturbing my peace with your tantrum….the cows won’t give milk for a fortnight at least after this display of yours. If you hunger, I will provide you all the meat you desire, if you thirst I will provide you drink as well but you WILL cease your howling this very moment or I shall send you on your way with nothing at all but a scolding and I shall tell Jon what you’ve done!” 

 

The dragon lowers it’s head to her, it’s long, nearly serpentine neck bringing it within touching distance of her, and though all Sansa wants in the world is to start screaming in pure animal terror, all she does is fold her arms across her chest and arch a brow at it expectantly, as if she does not doubt for a moment that it will do as she bids. 

 

It sniffs her delicately, then blows out a breath that smells like metal and feels hotter than forge-fire before offering a penitent chirp and raising itself back up, climbing carefully, and quietly, down from the wall and settling outside the keep itself. 

 

Sansa immediately turns on her heel and marches back to the castle proper, wind in her unbound hair and her furs trailing behind her, she stops by the stables and bids her frantic stable master to pick three fat cows and take them beyond the castle walls for the dragon, and after he gives her a wide-eyed nod she continues on her way, headed back to her tower with single-minded determination, where she can cry and have the hysteric fit that has been clawing at her since the moment she heard the dragon roaring. 

 

One must keep up appearances, after all.


	5. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon dreams and wakes the dragon.

JON

 

He’s dreaming again, and once more Jon finds himself in the burnt throne room of King’s Landing, the snow and ash drifting around him to blanket the ground. It’s different this time though, the Iron Throne is gone now, burnt to melted slag by Drogon’s fiery breath just as it had been the last time he’d seen it in the waking world. 

It had always been whole here before…and confusing though it might be when he feels familiar heat at his back, Jon turns, expecting to see Drogon’s familiar red eyes and hear the overpowering, tectonic rumble of his voice…but it isn’t Drogon who greets him this time. 

 

It’s Dany. 

 

Jon’s heart stops when he sees her, struck with a pain that cuts him deeper than Olly’s blade ever could have because she’s as beautiful as he remembers her being, but somehow, moreso….because she’s different here too. Dany is dressed in blue, now, and not black, and her silver hair is unbound, pale as snow and drifting free in the winter wind. 

 

She’s smiling at him.

 

It’s her smile that breaks Jon entirely, sending him crumpling to his knees in the snow as he had the day he’d killed her and he can’t make himself meet her eyes. It may well be cowardice but he just can’t bear to see her hatred. Her confusion and betrayal had been bad enough….her hatred would destroy him as surely as the melted throne behind him.

 

“I had to.” he chokes out, staring down at his hands instead of looking at her, and Jon can’t help but think to himself that they should still be covered in her blood, marking him for what he was. 

A traitor.

 

“I’m so sorry, Dany….I am, but I had to…it had to be me. I couldn’t let you..” the words won’t come, no matter how hard Jon tries, they stick in his throat even though he’d spent hours imagining what he would have said to her if he’d had the chance when he was taken prisoner by the Unsullied. He’d spent weeks imagining better choices, better words, futures where they could still be together, 

 

Jon expects her fury, he believes he deserves it, but what he gets is her hands on his cheeks, forcing his face up to meet her eyes, and when he looks at her…Dany is still smiling at him, and for the first time there are no shadows in her eyes, no ghosts dimming her brilliance.

 

“I know, I forgive you,” she says, and it finishes him. the tears he’d been holding in since he put his knife in her heart rise up and down him at last. She holds him as he weeps, pulls his body close to her own and strokes his hair and says nothing.

 

“Thank you.” she murmurs into his hair when he can manage to calm himself, he hadn’t wept like this since he was a child, crying in the dark for a mother he’d never known and Jon can feel the warm whisper of her breath against his skin, Dany still smells like smoke and copper, and he wonders if he will ever smell anything so sweet again. 

 

“You saved me.” she whispers into his ear, before turning his face up to look at her again, refusing to let him hide from her. 

 

“I’m sorry too,” she says, as she looks into his eyes, and there are tears in her own now, though they evaporate to steam from the increasing heat coming from her body before they can make their way down her pale cheeks.

 

“I never……I never wanted to.” there is pain in her eyes then, and she shuts them and gathers herself again before meeting Jon’s gaze once more. 

 

“You did what was right, and I am so sorry I made you do it.” she follows the curve of his mouth with her thumb, as she had when they’d laid together on her ship. The heat of her is growing painful, but he refuses to let her go again. 

 

Let them burn together because Jon doesn’t care anymore. He’s given all he had, all he was, and it was never enough. Jon was tired, now, so very tired, could he not have this one thing for himself? 

 

“I have to go now, Jon. “ Dany says, catching his now steaming hands and pushing them away from her body, and for some reason Jon finds that he can’t resist her, not here, no matter how he tries, and he does try, he fights with everything he has not to let her go but there is nothing he can do, because she’s frozen him in place, kneeling in the water from the melted snow around them. 

 

“Please. Dany,…please. “ Jon had never been a begging man, but he begs now because words are all he has. 

 

“Please don’t leave me,” he says, and he can see her waver, he can see that she wants to stay, that she would if she could and it eases a hurt inside him that he hadn’t even known was there. 

 

“I won’t, Jon. I’ll always be with you. Take care of my son, he needs you just as much as you will need him.” the heat of her makes the air around her shimmer with its intensity …but for the first time Jon isn’t afraid of being burned. 

 

“A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing.” he murmurs, recalling Maester Aemon’s words from so long ago, and Dany offers him a smile as bright as the sun in return and then bursts into flames, and they are higher and brighter than anything Jon has ever seen before, and from their center comes the haunting melody of dragonsong, they grow ever more blinding in their brilliance and as the flames engulf the throne room and all within it..including himself, Jon isn’t afraid. 

 

Fire cannot kill a dragon.

 

When he opens his eyes again in the waking world, pressed close against the side of Drogon’s body, the black dragon’s massive heart beating against Jon in perfect time with his own he smiles for the first time since he returned to the wall.


	6. Drogon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drogon is out of patience.

Drogon had been met with many reactions from humans during his admittedly short life, and they were as varied as the colors of a sunset, he remembers that when he was small he’d been petted and praised, especially by women, and no one had feared him. On the contrary, he’d brought only joy and wonder to the faces of those who saw him and he had loved every moment of their affection. 

 

They’d had no cause to fear him at that age because the idea of hurting a human had never so much as crossed his young mind. Why would he harm a human, when he was one? 

When Drogon had grown a little larger, however, the reactions of those around him began to change to wariness, the joy was still there..the wonder too but now there was fear, and the bitter taste of it began to grate on him, making him snappish and ill-tempered, and along with his increase in size and shortness of temper, Drogon had learned that he was not a human, that he was something else entirely. 

 

Something that most humans feared. 

 

Drogon was a dragon, and his two siblings were dragons as well, and while their mother looked like a human Drogon could smell the difference between her and the others that clustered themselves around her, and she was a dragon too, just like them, for all that her shape was unlike their own. The soul inside her was born of fire and blood, just like theirs, and like called to like.

 

The larger Drogon grew, the more the joy and wonder on the faces of others changed into fear, and then from fear into terror and eventually, Drogon had learned that he enjoyed their fear far more than he ever had their wonder. It made him feel powerful, strong, and as his body matured Drogon found himself ever more compelled to establish himself as the leader among his siblings. He was largest, the strongest, his fire burned hotter than their own and his magic was deeper than theirs would ever be. 

 

It was his right to eat first, his sole privilege to fly ahead of them, and to be closest to their mother. Those things were his, and he would take them as was his due. 

Instinct drove Drogon then, compelling him to snap and snarl more and more the larger he became, eventually even at his own mother and that was what had ultimately driven him away from her side. Drogon would never be able to forget the look of wounded fear on his mother’s face the first time he’d lost control and snapped at her over a kill. 

She was his mother, she had loved him and cared for him and protected him for as long as Drogon could remember and at that moment she’d been afraid of him.

 

It had hurt the black dragon terribly and out of fear and shame he’d fled from her, desperately attempting to learn to control himself before he did something terrible, something he couldn’t take back. 

 

Drogon had a left their mother behind, believing that she would be safe with Viserion and Rhaegal while he sorted out what was happening to him…but she hadn’t been, and if their bond had been any less powerful than it was Drogon would have lost her forever that day in the Pit. Drogon had felt her fear, then, as if it was his own and he had sensed her resignation to her own imminent death and the very thought of it had enraged him past bearing, roused him to a fury he’d had no idea he was capable of, but what had inspired it most was his own guilt.

 

He’d left her, and he’d very nearly not been able to reach her in time to save her from his own selfish stupidity. 

 

Drogon had never been far from his mother after that moment because he’d finally learned his lesson and he’d believed himself a wiser dragon for it. Only together were they strong, and so together they must remain. Always. 

 

In the end, Drogon had failed her anyway…and to his eternal shame he’d betrayed her one last time by refusing to be by her side when Jon Snow had done what Drogon himself could not, only daring to come to her again once she was truly gone. 

 

The shame was what made him gather her up and carry her away, in the process abandoning his only remaining kin. Drogon had been so certain all would be well, he truly had, the humans had to see the obvious, did they not? 

 

Why would they harm the man who had saved them at such a great cost to himself? 

 

Drogon had been wrong, again, and that was how he found himself being scolded by a woman in her nightdress like a hatchling caught chewing on the draperies. He’d forgotten what it felt like to be on the end of someone else’s anger and he wasn’t particularly pleased by being forced to remember. 

 

He’d had to give the woman a good sniff just to be certain she wasn’t a Targaryen herself, but all he’d smelled on her was snow and wintergreen and the faint musk of wolf, all of which was overlaid by the acid bite of magic. It was familiar, Jon Snow smelled similarly but the woman’s power was born entirely of ice with no trace of fire at all. She and Jon were kin, but not kind. 

 

She was not a dragon.

 

As he’d carefully descended from her wall, Drogon had given sincere thought to eating the woman entirely on principle…because who was she to scold him? Drogon was a dragon, and he’d left larger droppings than her behind after a healthy meal, but unfortunately, Drogon was also certain that his new rider would take it poorly if Drogon ate his kinswoman…. and that was no way at all to begin a bond. 

 

The arrival of the cows had mollified Drogon’s ill humor considerably however and in the end, he’d magnanimously decided to spare her and her stone house….because it would be incredibly rude for him to eat her after she’d provided him with three lovely, fat cows after such a long journey from the south. 

 

Drogon did have SOME manners, after all, he was a dragon, not a savage. 

 

Once he’d eaten and rested briefly Drogon had headed for the Wall, where the woman had said he could find his rider but upon his arrival, he’d been tempted to turn right around and eat her …because Jon Snow wasn’t THERE either. It was only the loud arguments of the frightened men around him that kept Drogon in place. Jon Snow was not there….but he would be, and all Drogon had to do was wait for him. 

 

So that was what he’d done, settling himself in place to digest his last meal while biding his time until his rider’s return, and if Drogon used a tiny bit of magic to draw him back faster who could blame him? It was a perfectly reasonable use of power.

Leaving humans to their own devices unsupervised was a disaster waiting to happen, as both Drogon’s mother and Jon Snow himself had already amply proven. 

 

What did other humans do without dragons to keep them out of trouble? Drogon almost felt sorry for them. 

 

Jon’s arrival had been a relief beyond measure, and Drogon had flown down to him immediately, overcome by his own irritation and frustration he had to admit that perhaps he’d lost his temper with his rider just a trifle, but anyone would if they were in Drogon’s position. Jon had handled it remarkably well, however, which had pleased Drogon a great deal. 

 

He’d just been so *worried* about the boy, anything could happen to him if Drogon wasn’t there to protect him…how many times had Drogon and his mother had to come to the man’s rescue already? Honestly, Drogon was growing ever more tempted to put him in a tower someplace where Drogon could keep watch on him and perhaps actually get some rest without worrying about whatever disaster his rider would walk blindly into next.

 

If he had hair, Drogon was absolutely certain that it would be white as snow by now from the sheer stress of dealing with Targaryens. 

 

It didn’t make the black dragon love the man any less, however. It DID mean that once the pleasantries were done Drogon had made absolutely certain that Jon was going to be safe while the both of them finally got some rest. He’d delicately herded the man into the proper position for Drogon to scoop him up in his brood-pouch, the only place Drogon knew for sure that his rider couldn’t get into trouble the moment the black dragon attempted to close his eyes. Drogon was incredibly pleased that he’d at last developed the wing fold to allow him to do it with. 

 

Dragon eggs and hatchlings were fragile, hatchlings almost entirely unable to regulate their own body heat, and so it was up to their parents to keep them protected and warm until their fire ignited within them they could defend themselves and feed. The best way to do that was to keep them close. It meant that the brooding parent was grounded until their mate returned, one wing entirely useless while maintaining the correct heat and protective shelter for the hatchlings but as Jon Snow wasn’t quite a hatchling, it wasn’t so dire a sacrifice. 

Drogon really only needed to keep his new rider in one place while they slept, but it would also handily serve as an opportunity to solidify the bond between them. 

 

Physical contact was important to establish the necessary connection between rider and dragon in order to allow them to work together in flight and in battle. Jon’s bond with Rhaegal had been thread-thin, by their mother’s own design and it had grieved Drogon terribly to know that Rhaegal was never able to experience the bond with her rider that Drogon had with their mother. 

 

Drogon knows that it would have been a deep one, else Jon never would have been able to guide her in flight or during their fight with the rotting monstrosity that had once been their sibling, and that he’d managed it so quickly with so little to connect them was heartbreaking in a way that Drogon couldn’t even begin to express. 

 

Their mother had only ever allowed Jon contact with Rhaegal for limited spans of time…never the hours or days necessary to truly bind them together as they should have been as a pair.

It was a bitter truth that had she had allowed them that time, Rhaegal would not have died…because she would have been safe with her rider, and not half crippled in the sky for Euron Greyjoy to murder. The great tragedy of it all was that it was their mother’s fear that had killed Rhaegal just as much as Greyjoy’s scorpion. 

 

In trying to keep Rhaegal for herself, she’d lost her forever and robbed her of something precious in the process. 

 

Drogon had never been so glad that Rhaegal and Viserion had insisted on a mating flight the moment Drogon had told them about the scorpion bolt that had almost cost him his life as he was when he saw Rhaegal tumble from the sky and into the sea below them. 

 

As the largest of the three of them, it was Drogon who had chosen to brood the eggs, and they were so very small at first that one wouldn’t think it a difficult thing to do…but producing a clutch of eggs was no easy task as Drogon had soon discovered. It drained the body, and bled the magic from the dragon attempting it in ways Drogon hadn’t known was possible. 

Life has a price, and it is the brooding dragon that pays it. 

 

Viserion would never have survived the attempt, and Drogon believes that while Rhaegal might have, the price of it would have been high, weakening both body and magic …perhaps permanently. Difficult though it was, Drogon is glad he’d made the choice he had. 

 

It took a long time to brood a clutch of eggs, however, and Drogon estimated that it would be at least a year or more before the clutch he currently carried would be ready to be laid and hatched. Perhaps even longer, depending on how much magic Drogon chose to expend and how well he fed in the meantime. 

 

He really couldn’t wait until it was over, and he was resolved that he would NEVER do it again once it was. He’d had quite enough of brooding for one lifetime.

 

Drogon preferred to be male generally, just as Rhaegal had preferred to be female, Viserion had always been indifferent but it was all rather moot aside from certain hormonal cues, no one but another dragon could really tell the difference by sight. A dragon was a dragon in the eyes of most humans, with no outward signs to be seen between one gender and another, quite understandable since dragons could all switch between one gender and another according to hierarchy and reproductive need. It was just habit for humans to refer to dragons as male until they produced a clutch of eggs and proved otherwise. Drogon was not looking forward to being called ‘she’ but that was a problem for another day. 

 

The trip back up the wall was awkward and tedious, but as laborious as it was Drogon didn’t mind. Jon was safe where he should be, and now the black dragon could finally get some rest and hard-earned peace and quiet. Drogon wasn’t letting the man out of the security of his brood pouch until their bond was solid and they had both gotten some much-needed sleep and that was the end of it, he was entirely finished tolerating Targaryens and their non-sensical decision making. 

 

Drogon has all the time in the world now to teach Jon Snow what it means to be a dragon, and there is so much he intends to show him; Drogon means to do it right this time, and he vows to himself that he will not fail Jon as he had his mother, Drogon will keep him safe and he’ll never leave him alone again, not for any reason short of Drogon’s own death. 

Drogon was going to wake the dragon hidden and half smothered within his rider if it was the last thing he ever did, and when he had the two of them were going to show the world what that truly meant to wake the dragon, with fire and blood if need be. 

 

Until then, however, Drogon is taking a bloody nap and the first person to disturb the two of them was getting eaten, cows or no cows.


	7. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They will rise or fall together.

The first thing Jon is aware of when he wakes, pressed close against the black dragon’s ribs is the steady beating of Drogon’s massive heart, he lays still in the darkness for a while, counting the beats before realizing that the dragon’s heart is beating perfectly in time with his own. 

 

The second thing Jon notices is that he’s warm. 

Despite centuries of rumors to the contrary, Starks could indeed feel the cold…the only difference was that as a rule they were able to ignore it and while uncomfortable, it was difficult for them to die of it. Jon had always made it a point to seem particularly unaffected by it, even compared to the rest of the Stark children, but the truth was that Jon had always felt the chill a little more keenly, he was just better at pretending not to notice. 

 

For years Jon had blamed his sensitivity on his not being a real Stark, on his blood being weak because of his bastardy…but as it turned out it had nothing to do with the fact that he was a bastard and everything to do with the fact that at least half of his blood hailed from much warmer climes. Targaryens had never been much inclined to the cold, as far as Jon could recall from Maester Luwin’s lessons; mostly choosing to avoid visiting the North whenever they could. 

 

Maester Luwin had been right as far as Jon could tell, because Dany hadn’t liked it much either, she’d complained bitterly the whole way north, claiming that no matter what she did she just couldn’t keep warm and she’d teased Jon about his own seeming imperviousness to it …and he’d played along, too proud to admit that he wasn’t over-fond of it himself and that he’d just long ago learned not to complain. 

Jon was warm, now, though, in fact he was almost *too* warm, and he felt better rested than he could remember being since before he’d left Winterfell the first time, all those years ago before setting out to the Wall with Tyrion Lannister to pledge himself to the Night’s Watch in hopes of washing away the stain of his tainted blood, a boy with a head full of dreams and a heart full of hope. 

 

Gods but he’d been so bloody YOUNG then, so innocent, though Jon knew with rueful certainty that he would have hated to have been told so at the time. It was true though, Jon sees it all too clearly now in hindsight, painfully true, and looking back at the boy he’d once been it was hard to accept that at one point he’d honestly believed that the men of the Watch were noble, that they were good men who pledged their lives to the Watch in genuine contrition for whatever sins they might have committed in their previous lives. 

 

Learning otherwise had been a bitter thing for Jon, because he’d always tried to give the best of himself, and it had pained him to learn that others would not do the same, that he could not expect of other men what he demanded from himself, and that trying would only end in tears for everyone involved….that had been the first, last, and most important lesson that the Wall had ever taught him, and it was one Jon would never allow himself for forget again.

 

Jon might have continued his navel gazing, but abruptly the secure pocket he’d been laying in shifted, and he found himself being unceremoniously dumped out into the snow as Drogon flexed his wing out from its carefully clenched position. 

 

Jon fell for what may have felt like forever but was more likely around six feet, landing on his back and yelping at the unexpected drop and impact. Jon wasn’t hurt from the fall, but he was a touch winded and would more than likely be sore later. 

A few moments later, as he was trying to remind his lungs how to breathe again he was abruptly greeted by the massive, looming face of Drogon, who was glaring down at him long-sufferingly, a distinctly unimpressed expression on his black-scaled face. 

 

“You could have warned me, you know. “ Jon wheezed up at him as he slowly pulled himself into a sitting position, and just for a moment he could have sworn the dragon actually smirked at him, before huffing and giving him a solid shove with his nose. 

 

“ …Gods be good, you’re worse than Ghost.” Jon complained as he clambered to his feet, blinking blearily at the brightness around him. 

 

It looked to be perhaps an hour or so past dawn, the sky still a little pink with the last blush of sunrise, and Jon noted that it had snowed at some point during the night, leaving a fine, gleaming blanket of fresh powder over the castle and over Drogon himself. 

As Jon stepped away from the dragon to get his bearings, Drogon stretched both his wide, dark wings out to their full extension, flapping them a bit and then giving his spines a good shake as well, sending snow flying in all directions. Watching him pulled an unexpected smile from Jon, because for some reason it reminded` him of Ghost after a bath, and as Jon studied the dragon’s face he could see from his expression that Drogon liked the snow about as much as Ghost liked baths. 

Which was to say not at all.

 

Jon’s moment of good humor didn’t last, because only a few heartbeats later the black dragon turned his focus back onto Jon himself, those red eyes staring at him expectantly.

 

Jon realized with rising unease that Drogon wanted something from him, and Jon didn’t have the first idea about what it might be. What did dragons like? Aside from burning things, that was and as Jon flailed internally, trying to sort out what to do and franticly trying to remember everything Dany and Maester Luwin had ever told him about Dragons, Drogon finally lost patience with him and lowered his wing and shoulder down, using his head and neck to herd Jon exactly where he wanted him, making what he wanted from him as clear as Myrish crystal. 

 

Drogon wanted Jon to ride him and suddenly Jon found himself filled with the overpowering desire to run in the other direction as fast as his two legs would carry him and never stop again. The last time Jon had been on a dragon, Rhaegal had been falling from the sky after his and Dany’s mid-air battle with the wight dragon and Jon hadn’t expected either of them to survive the fight itself…much less their rough landing. 

Jon had never been so terrified in all his life as he was that night, he’d been so petrified at the idea of riding Rhaegal again that he hadn’t protested at all when Daenerys had informed him that Rhaegal would be going with her to Dragonstone rather than remaining with Jon and the Northern army, even though a voice inside Jon had been screaming that it was wrong, that Rhaegal should remain with him, especially while the dragon was injured. 

 

Jon, giving in to his fear had been silent, and Rhaegal had died for it. 

Jon hadn’t needed to be informed when the raven arrived with news of the ambush the next morning….because the moment Rhaegal’s heart had stopped, Jon himself had cried out, clutching his own chest and crumpling to his knees right in the middle of speaking to one of his lieutenants, struck down between one word and the next, the agony leaving him light headed and nauseous, disoriented beyond bearing and feeling as if he had been cut adrift somehow. 

 

It had been an awful sensation, one Jon hadn’t been able to explain in words, even though he’d tried to the panicked Maester that had been summoned to tend him, but the worst of it had been the pain, the green dragon’s absence had hurt him as profoundly as if a physical part of of Jon’s body had been sheared off entirely. 

Jon had bled inside from a wound he couldn’t see or name, and it had been a full day before he’d been able to rise from his cot and continue their journey south, and even now, when it had been nearly eight months since the dragon’s death, Jon could still feel the raw place inside himself where Rhaegal should have been but wasn’t and never would be again. 

 

Jon wasn’t sure he was ready to risk feeling all that again.

 

It didn’t seem as though he had a choice however, because Drogon was making it cleat that he wasn’t taking ‘no’ for an answer, the black dragon had decided that either Jon was going to climb up on his back of his own volition or Drogon was going to make him…but either way Jon WAS riding him, one way or another, the only question being just how many bruises Jon had at the end. 

 

“Alright, damn you…ALRIGHT.” Jon found himself barking, thumping Drogon hard on the snout with an open hand after being jabbed in the side again by the impatient dragon. The dragon was being gentle, or at least as gentle as a dragon could be, but Jon knew that there was going to be a bruise the size of a dinner plate on his side later, he could already feel it throbbing. 

 

Drogon had the decency to look mildly chastened, but Jon could tell that he wasn’t a bit sorry…and there was something smug in the crinkle of his eyes as he watched Jon begin to climb awkwardly onto his back. Jon found himself slipping more than once as he tried to navigate the black dragon’s larger body, searching for hand and footholds among Drogon’s more elaborate horns and frills. 

 

It surprised Jon just how many differences there were between Drogon and Rhaegal, Jon hadn’t really noticed it before, but Drogon had an extra row of crimson frills along his neck, and larger, more elaborate horns as well. Drogon was also bulkier than Rhaegal had been, and more muscular as well, and the heat he radiated beneath Jon was far stronger too, strong enough to be almost uncomfortable, even with layers of fabric and fur between Jon’s skin and the black dragon’s scales.

 

Eventually Jon managed to settle himself into place, and he’d no sooner wrapped his hands around a pair of Drogon’s neck spikes than the dragon was leaping from the Wall and into the air, his massive wings scooping the air and carrying the both of them up into the sky faster than Jon could ever remember going on Rhaegal. 

 

It was different, riding Drogon. Very different. Jon knew it right away; he could feel it in his bones, in the same part of him that ached when Rhaegal had died, but there was something rising inside him the higher that Drogon climbed, the two of them eventually rising so high and fast that Jon could barely breathe, and when he did, his breath froze immediately in the air in front of him, making his beard gleam with ice. 

 

Jon wondered if the dragon meant to kill the both of them, because he could feel Drogon straining mightily beneath him, so he knew that their ascent was was no easier on the dragon than it was Jon himself. 

 

Suddenly, they seemed to reach whatever goal the black dragon had in mind, because the two of them hovered in mid-air for a moment, the ground lost beneath them, obscured entirely by an endless, thick layer of clouds, surrounded by the blinding blue of the sky, a shade so intense that Jon didn’t even have a name for it. 

 

It was beautiful.

 

Then, just when Jon knew he could bear no more, the moment shattered and Drogon let out a loud, high screech and abruptly folded his wings close to his sides, and Jon only had a moment to realize what the dragon intended before the pair of them began to fall from the sky like stones. 

 

At first, as they fell, all Jon could feel was terror. It was a mindless thing, blind animal panic that raged inside him and robbed him of both reason and strength and Jon screamed as they dropped, clenching his eyes shut and clutching on to Drogon’s spines for dear life as the wind rushed past them, snatching the sound away the moment it left his lips, but beneath the fear, beneath his panic, Jon could feel something else building inside him, something he’d never experienced before. Something that terrified him more than the fall, more than the idea of death.

He didn’t have a name for it, but Jon knew that after today he would never be the same. This was an ending; a death. Jon knew it, he didn’t know how he knew it, but he did. 

 

Suddenly, through his squinted, wind teared eyes Jon could see the ground again as he and Drogon burst back through the cloud line; still falling at full speed, the dragon’s wings tucked tight to his body, his massive head angled down. 

 

Jon knew the time had come for him to make a decision. 

 

His fear and need had weakened the barrier between them, and now Jon realized with grim certainty that Drogon would crash the pair of them into the earth and shatter them to pieces before he unfolded his wings again of his own free will, the two of them would die together because the dragon was resolved that they would never live apart. Life or Death, flight or failure…it was up to Jon, now. Either he summoned the will to control the dragon beneath him or they died here and now, together, and there would be no more dragons. 

 

This was nothing like it had been with Rhaegal, the time for sweetness and games had long since passed. They are out of time and so Jon must make his choice, for good or ill, and the both of them will live or die by it.

 

Time seemed to slow to a stop around them as they fell, and distantly, Jon can hear Maester Aemon’s voice in his head, he can smell the ink and dust scent of the old man, feel the papery softness of his touch as if he was leaning close to Jon, just has he had that day in the rookery with his soft, weathered, and age gnarled hand on Jon’s shoulder. ‘Sooner or later a day comes in a man’s life when he must choose..’ 

 

Dany’s voice is a ghostly whisper in Jon’s other ear, low and sweet. ‘Wake the dragon.’ she says, and Jon can hear the smile in her voice, the pride. 

 

So he does. 

 

Jon’s eyes snap open as the barrier between himself and Drogon crumbles to nothingness, and now he can FEEL the dragon, Jon can sense Drogon’s joy, his hope and his fear as if it were his own, just as the dragon can now sense Jon’s and they need no words between them now because it is THEIR wings that snap open with a sound as loud as rolling thunder, stopping their free-fall as they roar their glee, their fury, and Jon can feel it in his own throat when they breath out a gout of fire, a fire fed now not only by the power within Drogon, but by the power within Jon as well, and that fire, THEIR fire is no longer orange.

 

It is black, black as night, black as Jon’s hair, black….just as Balerion’s flame had been, and now Jon realizes that he knows why Viserion’s fire had been blue. 

 

A dragon’s fire is their own, but it is also fed by their bond with their rider and the magic within them, and the color of it is dictated by the nature of the man or woman wielding it, the Night King’s magic was blue, and so too, then, was Viserion’s flame, fed by the Night King’s power, burning higher and hotter than it ever had while he lived.

 

Dany had been deeply bonded to Drogon, but her own magic was modest, extending only to passive protection from fire and occasional prophetic dreams. 

 

Jon was another matter entirely, and his magic was a well so deep and vast that Drogon was near drunk from it, and so their flame was black, the hottest and most lasting fire a dragon was capable of producing, a fire so strong that it could melt stone and turn deserts to glass. 

 

Jon laughed, and Drogon roared as they circled in the sky above Castle Black, bound so tightly to one another that they were one creature instead of two, Fire and Ice together, the last barrier between Man and Dragon torn down by the deep magic of the First Men, carried sleeping in Jon’s Stark blood, fed now by Targaryen fire. 

 

The Dragon is awake, and they are hungry. 

 

 

Leagues away, in the balmy warmth of the spring-touched south of King’s Landing, King Bran the Broken wakes from his slumber and realizes that he’s made a terrible mistake.


	8. Drogon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dragon's heart is a perilous thing.

Hours upon hours will pass before Drogon is at last willing to come down from the sky again with his newly bonded rider, the pair of them choosing instead to spend the entire day soaring over Castle Black and idly exploring the lands surrounding it; Drogon lazily riding the roaring winter winds, and dancing nimbly between soaring thermals and powerful downdrafts, wide black and scarlet wings rising and falling in an acrobatic performance that reminded Drogon somewhat of the ostentatious display of a mating flight. 

It isn’t a bad comparison. 

 

Not perfect of course, his bond with Jon is not a sexual one, far from it, but it is reminiscent at the very least of the sort of intimacy between a dragon and their mate, but their bond was a deeper, far more lasting thing. Mating was a transient experience for a dragon, at least in most cases, the bonds created between a mated pair were something to be nurtured for a time between a single pair or a larger group and then eventually those bonds were dissolved naturally as those involved brooded their eggs and then raised their hatchlings to an age where they could successfully hunt and fend for themselves, with the participants ultimately going their own way and returning to their own territories once more once their task as a parent was complete. Jon and Drogon will never be parted, the bond between them is irrevocable. 

 

Drogon knows with absolute certainty that the bond that he and his rider are creating between them now is deeper by far than any bond with a mate might ever be, deeper still even than the bond the black dragon had once shared with his mother, whom he had loved and adored with all his heart; that love had been the love of a hatchling for their parent, blind and unshakable, as unwavering as the sea and sky and just as enduring.

 

Jon Snow is another matter entirely, and Drogon finds himself as bewildered as Jon is by the new emotions now surging powerfully through the both of them.

 

What Drogon feels for his new rider is breathtakingly intense, nearly frightening in its magnitude, even for the dragon himself and Drogon finds himself entirely unprepared for it. He hadn’t known it would be like this when he’d decided to claim Jon as his new rider, he’d never imagined such a thing was even possible.

 

How could he?

 

Drogon had thought himself wise and well prepared for what was to come; had imagined that it would be himself educating Jon in what it meant to be a dragon once he had claimed Jon for his own but seemed now that Drogon had been wrong, very wrong, and the dragon was only just now learning exactly how far that wrongness extended. It was a humbling experience for him, and he was not too proud to admit it,

 

A dragon’s love bore little resemblance to a human’s. For them love is a darker, deeper thing. Powerful, with little room for separation, it either is, or it is not, there are no half measures when it comes to a dragon’s affection.

 

A dragon’s heart is hard to win but difficult to lose once given because dragons were possessive creatures by nature, covetous and ever hungry and deeply protective of the things or people they care for, and their hatred was much the same, easy to inspire and difficult to sooth once roused. 

 

All of that love belongs now to Jon Snow, and all of that terrible, enduring hatred is focused now on their enemies.

 

Drogon cares for Jon in a way that the black dragon can’t seem to put into words, not even if he had a hundred years to try and a tongue able to speak them with…..so he doesn’t bother and simply accepts it all for what it is.

 

The strength of Drogon’s affection is so overpowering that it feels to him almost felt like madness, the very idea of another dragon anywhere near his rider makes something inside Drogon’s soul immediately burn with near incandescent fury. 

Thinking of the dark-haired man being harmed or taken from Drogon in some way is even worse, just considering it makes the black dragon feel positively murderous. He forces his mind away from the possibility with ruthless determination, that way lay madness and the last thing that Jon needed was an infuriated Drogon inflicting his newly vulnerable mind through their bond. Drogon would always protect Jon, even if it meant protecting him from Drogon himself.

 

Drogon had never felt anything like what he did now before, and so he finds himself drunk on the power surging through the two of them, their combined emotions and strength passing effortlessly back and forth through their link, and through that same bond Drogon knows without question that his rider feels exactly as he does and that as deeply as Drogon touches Jon, Jon is touching Drogon in equal measure. 

 

Neither of them had been prepared for this, but as terrifying as the magnitude of it is Drogon can’t find it within himself to mind. All that matters to him now that the two of them are together, and he is resolved that together they will remain until either Drogon or his rider’s last breath. 

So they fly, both in the physical world and in the more intimate space of the bond between them, drifting back and forth through both the air and one another with the steady the ebb and flow of a tide; learning as they go and as time passes Drogon finds himself growing more and more fascinated with his rider, poking and prodding and nudging at the out of the way corners of the man’s mind, avidly seeking out memories and thoughts to examine. 

 

Jon’s mind is different from anything Drogon could have anticipated, and the black dragon finds himself helpless to resist his own curiosity.

 

He flits through memory after memory as they glide, eventually going back to the earliest that he can find, a memory which is nestled in a dark corner of his rider’s wide open mind, half-forgotten by the man himself but entirely new to Drogon who picks it apart with delicate care. 

Jon is a child here, the dragon realizes; small, so small that it makes Drogon feel instinctively snappish and protective as he watches the memory play itself out before his curious gaze. 

 

They’re in a room in what must be Winterfell, Drogon sees, it’s a large and well-furnished space with beautifully woven tapestries of hunting wolves hung on each wall, to ward off the chill, Drogon assumes, and there are an abundance of toys and games littering the floor…but there is no joy here, because Jon is backed into a corner clutching a soft toy wolf, wide-eyed and deeply frightened by what’s happening in front of him and stubbornly fighting the urge to hide himself behind one of those very tapestries with a surprising amount of determination for a five-year-old. 

 

A man and a woman stand in the firelight arguing with one another; their voices growing louder with every moment that passes. The man has dark hair and a long face, and the woman has red hair which flows unbound down her back, hanging like a scarlet curtain nearly past her hips; she would have been beautiful, at least as humans counted such things, if her pretty face weren’t twisted into a hateful snarl as she shouted at the shame-faced man in front of her. 

Drogon watches the younger Jon cower, trying desperately to make himself small and unnoticeable to the two adults, Drogon can feel his fear, his helplessness, and he knows that little Jon wants to cry, but is too terrified to do so lest he attract the red-haired woman’s attention.

 

Jon needn’t have bothered worrying, because the pair are, or perhaps more accurately *were* far too interested in tearing apart one another to worry about the frightened child in the corner. 

 

“I’m tired of it, Ned! “ the woman hisses, her face flushed with anger and her hands fisted at her sides in fury. 

 

“ I’m tired of seeing him lurking about the castle,” she spits as she begins to pace the room restlessly, the swell of her pregnant belly revealed through the pale white of her nightshift when she walks in front of the fire. 

 

“I’m tired of watching your bastard trail OUR son, your rightful heir, about like a stench! I am tired of his prancing about like he isn’t shame in human form! He doesn’t BELONG here, Ned, and I’m sick to death of pretending that he does! “ the woman grows increasingly louder as she speaks, and soon she gives up her pacing to stand before her mate, no, her husband, Jon’s memories provide….Jon’s human mind providing context that Drogon had lacked until now. 

The woman begins to poke one slender finger into the center of the dark-haired man’s broad chest to punctuate her words, which grow ever more hateful.

“ I am your wife, Ned! The mother of your TRUEBORN son, have you no thought for my happiness? No care for my honor?” there are angry tears in her eyes as she speaks, threatening to start rolling down her cheeks at any given moment. 

“Cat please, he’s just a child. You know that I love you, you KNOW that, but I-“, the man begins, only to be cut off again by the woman.

 

“No, Ned. No. No more excuses, no more prevarications, enough is enough. I want that boy out of this nursery tonight and in the servants quarters where he belongs and that is the end of it.” she demands. 

 

“There will be no more treating him as if he and our son, your rightful heir, are equals because I will NOT have that boy getting ideas above his station and being a bad influence on Robb, he is not Robb’s equal and he never will be, not now, not ever and it is far past time you make that clear to him. ” the woman declared, the tone in her voice as unyielding and solid as stone. 

 

“If you insist on keeping him here in Winterfell instead of sending him away and out of sight as you should, then as your wife I have no choice but to allow it, but your coddling of him ends here, Eddard Stark, or so help me I swear by the Old Gods and the New and on my honor as a Tully that I will take Robb and the babe now in my womb and at first light I will go to Riverrun and you will never see any of us again if it is the last thing I do. “ her voice was a venomous hiss by the end, as if she was more snake than human, spitting poison instead of words.

 

“ You bring your bastard here-” she snarled viciously, pointing at Jon without looking at him with one long, pale finger. “ -shaming me in front of both Gods and men and you have the audacity to expect me to simply accept it. You want me to smile and nod and play the doting mother when every day I see my shame paraded in front of me, when I am forced to see the echo of whatever whore you betrayed me within your bastard’s sullen, sneaking little face!” she snarls, her pretty face twisted into an ugly sneer and burning with the strength of her rage. She hated Jon, hated him with all her heart and soul for what he represented, and Jon, small though he was, knew it. 

 

The pain and conflict in the dark-haired man’s eyes as his wife ranted and raved was clear even for Drogon to see, and while Lady Stark might have been full of hatred and loathing and frustrated fury the man only weathers the storm of her rage, shamefaced and guilty and near unwilling to meet his wife’s eyes.

Eventually, when there is a lull in her tirade he shuts his grey eyes for a moment before opening them and at last looking at Jon where the boy cowers in the corner, watching the adults with those large, eternally solemn dark eyes and clutching his battered toy wolf so tightly that his little knuckles were white from the strength of his grip. 

 

“Choose.” the woman says, and Drogon watches bitterly as the man’s resolve crumbles to dust.

 

Drogon watches in impotent fury as Ned Stark walks over to Jon, towering over the small boy like a tree and staring down at him with anguish and resignation on his face for a few long moments before picking the boy up gently in his arms. 

Jon hides his face in the curve of Ned Stark’s neck, holding on to him tightly and Ned’s only reply to his wife’s cruel demand is a soft, solemn, but ever so slightly bitter “ As you wish, my Lady.” as he carries the boy from the room without another word.

 

Drogon watches from behind Jon Snow’s eyes as the boy lifts his head and looks back over his father’s shoulder as the man walks out, the child staring miserably at Lady Stark, who still stands in the firelight at the center of what had been Jon’s nursery for as long as the child could remember.

She meets their gaze; straight-backed and proud with a fierce expression of triumph on her flushed face, her angry eyes shining with delight at her victory over the boy, and the only thing the Jon feels in response to her naked loathing is pained confusion at what he could have done to make her hate him so much when all Jon had ever wanted was for her to love him as much as he wanted to love her. 

 

Drogon has never hated anyone as much as he does Catelyn Stark at that moment, the dragon hates her so much and so powerfully that he’s painfully glad that she’s already dead because if she wasn’t he isn’t entirely certain he could restrain himself from remedying that situation immediately and as painfully as possible.

 

The next memory is little better, and the next, and as he sorts through them Drogon realizes that few of Jon Snow’s memories are happy things, his rider’s life has not been a pleasant one, Oh…he’d been fed and clothed well enough but his only joy in his youth had come from his siblings. 

 

Some of them, at least.

 

Drogon saw that most of his rider’s happy memories were of a skinny little girl with mud on her skirts and a conspiratorial grin, and a boy with auburn hair so dark it looked almost as deep a shade as Jon’s own. He loves them fiercely, Drogon senses, as fiercely as any dragon and that love is of the same selfless, abiding nature as Drogon’s own. The world might see a direwolf when they look at Jon Snow but it is a dragon’s heart that beats within the man’s breast, steady and true.

 

There were others too in Jon’s memories, other brothers and sisters…but the memories of them are less warm, less worn and cherished than the others, some are even tainted with pain, they are memories his rider avoids thinking of, banishing them to the back of his mind, one of the people there Drogon realizes abruptly that he recognizes.

It is the madwoman in the castle who had shouted at him and then given him cows. 

 

Her name is Sansa, according to Jon’s memories, and in light of his new knowledge, Drogon immediately wishes that he had eaten her when he had the opportunity.

 

Jon’s recollections of her make it clear to Drogon that she’d had no love for her half sibling as a girl, only later, after enduring great hardship had she shown any sort of affection for the man she had believed to be her brother and even then it had not taken long for her to prove that her affection for him had been conditional, almost entirely dependent on Jon behaving as she wished him to and serving her purposes. 

 

Drogon drifted through his rider’s more recent memories and discovered that although Jon had been declared King in the North, Sansa had undermined him at every turn before others, repeatedly pitting herself against him publicly before the northern lords, siding with them against him and questioning his judgment and his reasoning; thus ingratiating herself to them in the process, cleverly making herself seem the more competent leader in comparison, the one more likely to serve their own interests.

Drogon could feel Jon’s confusion and frustrated misery overlaying his memories of those moments, his rider hadn’t seen what Sansa was doing then, and Drogon realized unhappily that his rider still wasn’t aware of the depth of his sister’s treachery. He loved her, no matter if she was kind to him or not and that love blinded him to the truth of her motivations.

Drogon might be a dragon, but one thing that all dragons understood was hierarchy, and Drogon sees with perfect clarity that Sansa Stark had been angling to take Jon’s position for herself from the moment it had been given to him.

She’d taken the first opportunity offered to her to betray his trust, using a secret she had sworn to keep to sow discord and mistrust far and wide to serve her own ends, destabilizing the fragile balance of power that Drogon’s mother had been trying to create between the Houses and feeding Daenerys’ insecurity and fear, and Sansa had done it all knowing full well the danger she was putting Jon in with her actions.

 

If Daenerys had been the woman Sansa had claimed she was, what did she think the Dragon Queen would do if a rival for her position was revealed?

 

What would the woman, the mad tyrant Sansa supposedly so mistrusted do if faced with a stronger claimant to the throne she meant to take for herself? Either she didn’t believe her own words and was playing a larger game or she was a fool, and Drogon did not think that she was a fool. Sansa had known that little Lord Tyrion was loyal to the Dragon Queen, Drogon knew that from his link with his mother and that Tyrion would tell her what was happening eventually. 

There were only two possibilities, the first being that Sansa was an idiot or the second, that she had intended all along for a cornered, panicked and isolated Daenerys to kill her inconvenient brother, and then Sansa could use the outrage of the Northern Lords after his murder to take the Northern throne for herself and insist on the North remaining independent in return for their support. 

 

Sansa had known that she was signing Jon Snow’s death warrant, Drogon is absolutely certain of it ….she simply hadn’t cared as long as it brought her closer to her own goals. 

 

Jon had been useful when it came to fighting the dead and ridding Sansa of her monstrous husband, Drogon had felt his rider’s savage pleasure in punishing the man who had abused and tormented his sister, but in Sansa’s eyes it seemed that his usefulness had come to an end with the death of the Night King, and so she had attempted to dispose of him in the most profitable way she could.

 

Jon did not see the pattern, blinded by his love for her as he was…but Drogon did, Drogon saw it quite clearly and he was not amused by it in the least. 

 

Drogon’s rider was a man of deep feeling, a man of conviction and principle who somehow managed to be kind as well, kind in a way that Drogon had never experienced before and he was so breathtakingly selfless and generous with whatever he had that it pained the dragon deeply to see that generosity abused. 

 

Everything Jon Snow did, he did for others, no matter how he felt about a situation …Jon would ultimately do what was right for everyone else with no regard for himself or his own needs whatsoever. There was no sacrifice he would not make for those he cared for….and Jon cared for everyone. He gave and gave and gave until there was nothing left of himself to give….and then he gave more. It had killed him once, that generosity. 

 

It had broken his heart, when he killed Drogon’s mother, the depth of his pain at her loss was a match for Drogon’s own…and his reward for his sacrifice had been banishment, to be sent back to his icy prison to watch for an enemy that no longer existed, bound to keep order among a band of cutthroats and criminals until the day he died, alone and forgotten and severed utterly from every single person he had ever cared for. 

 

The only companion that Drogon’s new rider had left before the dragon’s timely arrival at the Wall had been a single direwolf; all rest that he had called friend were now busy enjoying the warmth of the south and settling into their new positions of power, according to Jon’s memories, visions of scrolls and ravens providing the dragon with a solid idea of the state of things in the Six Kingdoms. 

 

They profited, and Jon was punished, as he had always been…and being the man he was, he had accepted it all as his due without complaint, because that was his nature. 

 

This will not do, Drogon decides, this will not do at all because Drogon refuses to allow the situation as it was now to stand, he will not do it, he will not allow matters to end here with a good man left to rot at the end of the world because the man himself believes he deserves no better and so lacks the will to fight his fate. 

Jon doesn’t need to fight alone now, because Drogon will fight for him, the black dragon means to protect Jon Snow unto his last breath if need be, Drogon will never betray his rider’s trust or allow others to do so, Drogon will not sit idly by and let others use Jon and then discard him when he is no longer needed like a bone they are tired of chewing on. 

 

They are dragons, and they will NOT be forgotten. 

 

Drogon will make certain of it, one way or another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If ever Jon Snow had a theme song, it would be 'Noble Blood' by Tommee Profitt feat Fleurie, the inspiration for this chapter rests squarely on that song.
> 
> Love to all my readers, your comments give me life. <3


	9. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You know what they say about good intentions.

The sensation of not being entirely alone in his own thoughts is a strange one; but Jon finds that much to his surprise, he doesn’t mind it at all, because having Drogon in his head doesn’t feel invasive; even though Jon knows full-well that the dragon is gleefully pawing through his mind like a child with a box of new toys. 

It’s odd, aye, true enough, but it’s also the first time in Jon’s life for as far back as he can remember that he hasn’t felt alone. It’s a good feeling, not being alone, because until now, there had always been parts of himself that no matter how hard he tried, Jon couldn’t bring himself to share with others. 

 

Yet Drogon seems to be determined to barrel through every wall Jon had ever built within himself as if it were his Gods given right to do so, and as far as Jon could tell so far it seemed that the black dragon might very well be right. 

 

It seems so natural, this thing between them. 

As they fly, Jon can feel their minds twining ever more closely together, bound tighter and tighter with every flap of the dragon’s massive wings and every beat of Jon’s heart, the sensation reminds Jon of the clinging vines that had once grown up the side of the broken tower in Winterfell in his youth, they’d looked so deceptively fragile..but beneath the greenery the vines themselves were ancient, thick and strong, and rooted so deep into the stone that to remove them would have brought the entire tower crashing down….only the broken tower here is Jon, and the vines are Drogon, weaving himself irrevocably into the stonework of Jon’s soul.

 

He should probably be more concerned about that, about allowing himself to need something or someone so much that he could not live without them if they were taken from him but Jon can’t bring himself to care anymore.

He’s tired, he’s tired to his very bones and soul and heartsore beyond measure and so he means to take and keep this one thing for himself, consequences be damned ….although he hesitates to call the bond he now shares with Drogon a ‘thing’.

 

Dany had said that day on the cliff at Dragonstone that Dragons were not beasts, and while Jon had listened to her, had believed her, he hadn’t really understood what she meant, the magnitude of the difference between Drogon and say…Ghost. 

 

Jon loved Ghost, and he knew without a doubt that Ghost loved him just as fiercely in return but while Ghost was more intelligent than most men Jon knew, and ten times as brave and loyal he would still hesitate to say that the direwolf was the equal of a man when it came to depth and power of reason. 

Ghost was a wolf, an usually large and terrifyingly clever wolf, true enough…but a wolf none the less, an animal with all the same needs and drives as any other. 

Jon also knows that while the dire wolf’s link with him has made Ghost’s mind keener than it would otherwise have been by nature, even that influence can’t change the core of what Ghost is, and Jon for his own part would never wish to. He loves his direwolf for himself, just as he is. Ghost is a finer friend than he deserves, and Jon knows it..but he is an animal, regardless. 

 

Drogon is not an animal, he is nothing close to it and yet, Drogon is also not a man, Jon’s dragon is something altogether different and Jon has no idea what to make of him just yet. 

 

Which is well enough, he wagers, considering that they now have the rest of their lives to learn one another to their heart's content.

 

Jon may be an open book for his dragon, but Drogon in his turn is just as bare and vulnerable to Jon himself and there is so much of the dragon to explore and understand that Jon highly doubts that he will ever manage to learn everything there is to know about him, not even if they have a hundred years together to try.

 

He does learn many things about Drogon as they fly, though, small, intimate things. He knows that the black dragon prefers to fly high, made leery of threats on the ground by the devices that had wounded him and slain Rhaegal. Jon also learns to his surprise that Rhaegal had been female, something he had never even considered in the short time that they’d had with one another.

 

Drogon for his part was learning just as much about Jon himself, leading Jon to the unexpected and profound realization that he had never felt so….seen, before. Not by anybody, man woman or beast, not ever.

 

There had always been parts of himself that Jon couldn’t share with others, in some cases even when he genuinely wanted to, for some reason he’d always found himself unable to make that last leap of trust and reach out to others, unable to let anyone into the fortress that he had made of his heart. 

From the time he was a child what defined Jon had always been the things that he chose NOT to say, rather than what he did.

 

It was Jon’s silence that shaped him, as much as hardship and pain. 

 

The world and those in it moved constantly around him, but Jon always managed to remain the same.

 

The sun is already beginning to set when the pair of them land just outside Castle Black; sending up a flurry of snow and ice in the process. As the dragon carefully settles himself once more on the ground, Jon can sense Drogon’s dislike of being there, it makes the dragon feel vulnerable to be grounded, awkward in a way he could never be in the air… Jon understands because even Jon himself finds it ungainly after hours of the endless freedom of the sky. 

Jon can see why the dragon’s thoughts have a tinge of sulkiness to them, but he does his best not to take too much amusement from it.

Neither of them were overly happy to be on the ground again; and were it up to Jon the pair of them would still have been in the air but unfortunately for them both Drogon had made it very clear that he didn’t want to chance flying after dark with Jon just yet, not until Jon was more comfortable in the air. 

Jon had argued of course, how could he not? Who would return to the ground if they could be in the air instead? Unfortunately for Jon, Drogon had remained firm in his denial, because according to the dragon, Jon was simply too inexperienced a rider for him to be comfortable flying with him at night without great need.

It was an unnecessary risk that Drogon refused to take. 

When Jon had protested again, Drogon had pointedly pulled the memory of their mid-air collision during the Battle of Winterfell to the forefront of Jon’s mind as an example of the results of flying blind and being ill-prepared. 

 

Jon had argued again, reminding Drogon that there were no other dragons for them to crash into now, with both Rhaegal and Viserion gone. Even as he’d thought it, Jon had desperately wanted to call the words back, he’d expected the mention of Drogon’s fallen siblings to pain the dragon, as Robb and Rickon’s loss still pained Jon himself, but Drogon’s only response had been to replace Rhaegal with a mountain, and that had been the end of Jon’s objections.

Jon might be as stubborn as aurochs but even he had to admit that the dragon had a point. 

 

So Jon had reluctantly agreed that they should return to the castle, and aside from the danger that the oncoming night presented, a more practical concern was that neither of them had bothered with food or water for nearly two days; and while sleep was a fine restorative the pair of them were in dire need of both in the very near future. Drogon even more-so than Jon himself. 

Jon could feel the dragon’s hunger if he focused hard enough on their link, a ghostly echo of the loud protests his own body was currently making. It was an incredibly strange sensation that even if Jon had been asked to describe; he doubted he would be able to do so with any sort of eloquence. Words had very little to do with the way he and Drogon communicated with one another.

 

Even as close as they were now…Jon still would not call the way he and Drogon interacted with one another speaking. There were no words that passed between them, only images, thoughts, and feelings. Yet what the dragon was trying to say was clear enough for Jon to understand regardless.

 

The process of dismounting from Drogon was no easier for Jon than mounting him had been, bond or no bond and if not for Drogon’s sudden supply of seemingly infinite patience Jon would like as not have fallen right on his face about half a minute into the process. 

 

He’d been trying to swing himself over onto the join of the dragon’s wing when he lost his grip on one of the Drogon’s spines, his hand too sweat slick to maintain his grip. 

Jon found himself fumbling desperately for another handhold, flailing to reach for another spine, but the spine he’d instinctively grabbed wasn’t there, because it had belonged to Rhaegal, not Drogon and its equivalent was well out of Jon’s reach because of Drogon’s larger size. 

 

Jon had resigned himself to the fall he was about to take….only for Drogon to turn his head and offer Jon one of the long, boney horns of his crest to grab onto, patiently waiting for Jon to get a solid grip and then ever so slowly helping him to climb down safely.

 

Jon had no idea that a dragon was capable of being so delicate….but if Drogon was any measure to go by, it seemed that he had a lot to learn about dragons. 

 

The gates of Castle black swing open and beyond them, Jon can see Tormund headed in his direction, Jon’s own steward, Wilmot, hot on the red-haired man’s heels. However, both of them are almost immediately overtaken by a white blur that charges past them and towards Jon at full speed. It’s Ghost, coming to greet him as he often did, the wolf meant Jon no harm, he was only excited to be with Jon again...but there was no way for Drogon to have known that. 

 

All Drogon saw was a huge beast charging towards his newly bonded rider, and the dragon’s instinctive need to defend Jon had risen up inside the black dragon like an angry tide, robbing him of both logic and restraint.

Jon didn’t even have time to call to Ghost to stop before Drogon put his head between Jon and the over-eager direwolf, sucking in a deep breath that Jon knows will be exhaled in a gout of black dragonfire. 

 

Jon doesn’t have time to think, to plan, all he can do is ACT, and so he ducks under the black dragon’s chin, booted feet skidding in the snow as he puts himself between the oncoming fire and his oldest friend without a single thought for his own safety. 

if Ghost were to burn then so too will Jon. He will not repay his friend’s loyalty with death if there was any chance at all that he might save him. 

 

“NO, DROGON!” Jon shouts, spreading his arms wide in a desperate effort to shield Ghost from what was coming, the direwolf skidding to a wide-eyed stop behind Jon, cowering low to the ground and whining in fear. 

 

Jon had never imagined that he would see panic in a dragon’s eyes, but he saw it there in Drogon's as the black dragon tried desperately to smother the flame that he had already begun to breathe out. There was nothing that Drogon could do to stop what was about to happen, nothing at all. 

 

Jon meets Drogon’s eyes as the stream of dragonfire comes roaring toward them, his last thought before the world is consumed utterly by black fire is a simple one, but it shatters Drogon’s heart to agonized pieces none the less. 

 

“I forgive you.” Jon thinks, and then he knows no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plz don't kill me for this cliffhanger, kthnx.


	10. Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The things we do for love.

What is love? 

How does one measure a thing that cannot be touched, can’t be weighed by hand or eye? 

Yet all men believe they know its meaning and it’s worth, from the mightiest Kings to the meanest beggars. Love is the force that drives both man and beast and in its name an uncountable number of both beautiful and terrible acts have been committed.

 

Love is as inescapable as death itself, and is just as powerful in her own way.

In Braavos, they call her she-of-many-faces, who is cloaked in joy upon her arrival and who trails sorrow in her wake at her departure, but there are an infinite number of shapes she takes and discards as she pleases and all of them have their own power. 

 

She lives in the love of a mother for her newborn babe, sacrificing her own life without regret so that her son might have a chance to live and learn and one day love in his turn. 

In another guise she is a brother who’d offers nothing but welcome and kindness to a lonely boy, and who was steadfast in his devotion even when it would have been easier not to be.

She is red eyes and soft, snow white fur, offering companionship and comfort in the dark without judgment when all hope seems lost.

She is the selfless dedication of a King to his people, when he gives up his own happiness to keep them safe and allow them to experience the joys and freedoms that he himself will never know, and the sacrifice of a man that gives his life to protect a woman he loves but that he knows will never love him in return yet stands by her side regardless.

Love is also the blind rage of a woman pushed past breaking, losing herself in her own fury while avenging the death of a friend and the murder of her child, and the clawing desperation of another woman, willing to make any sacrifice and commit any atrocity to protect those she loves from harm and the man who pushes a child from a tower window to keep a secret that could destroy all that he holds dear.

 

 

The things we do for love. 

 

In this moment she is the aching sorrow of a dragon who believes that he has destroyed the last thing in all the world he treasures. There is a power in love that can shake the world to its very foundations if given a chance, an ancient strength near forgotten by both men and dragons. 

 

As dragonfire engulfs Jon Snow and his direwolf it is that very power that between one breath and the next surrounds the pair of them with a shining shield created of both ice and magic, the same magic that in ages long past Bran the Builder and the Children of the Forest had used to create the Wall itself, magic so powerful and deeply rooted that it had taken ten thousand years and a dragon to shatter it.

 

Drogon’s fire is utterly useless against what Jon has wrought, and the dragon shuts his mouth with an audible snap the moment he’s able, abruptly cutting off his fire and rearing back in shock and confusion. 

 

Drogon isn’t the only one that’s shocked however because Tormund and Wilmot are no better off than the dragon, the three of them end up simply staring at the bubble of gleaming ice in utter confusion for several long moments, wide eyed, mouths hanging open in bafflement as they try to make some manner of sense out of what had just happened. 

“ ...what in the frozen fuck is that?” the red-bearded man says after a few heartbeats of mute confusion. 

The three of them look back and forth at one another, men and dragon both but none of them have anything like and answer for what’s just happened. It is Wilmot that recovers first, Drogon and Tormund both still stunned mute in bewilderment.

 

“I don’t have a clue,” the older man says, a note of urgency creeping into his raspy voice, “ But if we don’t move our arses Lord Commander Snow and his wolf are going to suffocate in that bloody thing.” He says as he steps forward, meaning to try and examine the ice shield itself. 

Wilmot makes to touch cautiously the shield, trying to see what might be inside through the distorted blurr of the ice but Drogon at last recovers from his stupor and growls, freezing the old man in his tracks, rheumy blue eyes flying wide with sudden terror. Another growl makes his stagger backwards, away from the ice as the dragon lumbers forward. Tormund and Wilmot share a look of concern, but neither of them can fight a dragon so they reluctantly give way.

 

Drogon is the first to touch the ice, pressing against it with his massive, black scaled snout and breathing hot steam on it to see if it could be melted, and then shoving it to test if it might simply be overturned but the answer to both questions seemed to be a resounding no, the ice proving entirely immovable. 

 

The dragon’s next tactic was to attempt to crack it with his teeth, and this time Drogon is overjoyed to find that he has a small measure of success as the ice spiderwebs under pressure of his sharp teeth. It is difficult however, even for a dragon to exert enough pressure to shatter it entirely but after a solid ten minutes of gnawing at it the ice shield at last gives way entirely and crumbles. 

 

Jon is laying unconscious on the ground within, black hair spread out on the snow with Ghost standing over him, hackles raised and snarling viciously at Drogon, who tears back again in surprise, the white wolf fully willing to attack the dragon if he so much as hinted at touching his master. 

This time it is Drogon who gives way, lowering his huge head and reluctantly stepping back from both man and wolf, clearly unhappy about the situation but unwilling to endanger His rider any more than he already has, wounded pride or no. 

The only person Ghost is willing to allow near Jon is Tormund, and the Wildling moves quickly to his friend’s side, dragging Jon’s limp body into his arms and checking to see if he still breathed. He did, much to Tormund’s relief, slow and deep, but he didn’t wake no matter how hard Tormund shook him, and even a slap served no purpose save to irritate Drogon, who let out a rumbling growl of warning that Tormund ignored entirely. 

 

Either he tended his friend or he worries about an ill-tempered lizard, and as far as Tormund was concerned the Dragon could go fuck himself for now. 

 

“This is your fault, you overgrown lizard, so either shut your bloody yap and help us or go do whatever the fuck it is that dragons do when they are setting things on fire and let US help him as best we can.” Tormund shouted, when Drogon frowned again as Tormund made to lift Jon into his arms and carry him into the castle proper. 

 

The dragon growled again, low and rumbling as he turned murderous red eyes on the wildling, who stood defiant, with Drogon’s rider hoisted over one broad shoulder. “Hate me all you want, lizard, but let us do what needs to be done to mend the damage you did. You can always eat me later.” He said cheerfully, before turning his back on the dragon and carrying Jon past the gates, trailed by Ghost with old Wilmot bringing up the rear, the old man looking back worriedly at the dragon every few paces.

 

Drogon remained where he was, trembling in barely restrained fury for quite some time before he chose to follow them, only to find that the gate to the castle yard was too small for him to pass. 

 

He considered climbing it, but he knew that the wood framing wouldn’t be able to support his weight....so Drogon simply began pulling it down, teeth and claws tearing the heavy timbers and framework apart like dry twigs, entirely ignoring the panicked and angry shouts from the men inside, and when the hole was large enough for him to pass though he squeezed himself through it and into the main courtyard.

 

It was an incredibly tight fit, Drogon’s body filling nearly the entire space, with a fair section of his tail laying outside of the now much more reasonably sized gate...but the dragon didn’t care. Not even a little. The men could shout and wail all they liked, but Drogon did not mean to move again until Jon was with him once more. Jon would not leave this world alone as the dragon’s mother had, Drogon would not fail him as he had her. Dogon would wait as long as need be to be with Jon once more. 

 

His rider would wake again, he had to, because what would Drogon do without him?


	11. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merry meet, merry part and merry met again.

Jon shuts his eyes tightly as Drogon’s fire roars down on him, instinctively bracing himself for the pain that he knows is coming… but much to his surprise, long moments pass by and the the pain he fears never materializes, he waits a little longer, almost afraid to hope before cautiously opening his eyes; and when he does, Jon finds himself in a world that had, for many years, existed only in his memories.

 

The sight takes Jon’s breath away, his heart skipping a beat in pure shock.

 

Ned Stark sits once more under the great wierwood heart tree of the Godswood at Winterfell, summer sunlight glinting off his dark hair as scarlet leaves drift around him in the wind, Ice laying across his lap as he patiently runs a whetstone down its long, brightly gleaming edge. 

Jon had watched him sharpen that sword a thousand times as a boy and then a young man, but he’d never thought to see it again, at least not in this life and the familiarity of it makes Jon’s heart twist painfully in his chest.

 

All Jon can do is stand there rooted to the spot, staring wide-eyed at his father like a man dying of thirst might stare at water. 

 

As he does it; Jon tries desperately to fix the image in his mind, feverishly committing to memory every single detail about his father, from the gray at his temples to the crows feet at the corners of his eyes, the craggy solemnity of his long face, every single inconsequential thing he’d somehow forgotten in the years since the other man’s execution on the steps of the Sept of Baelor. Even the smallest of things are now as precious as diamonds to Jon. 

 

Suddenly, perhaps feeling Jon’s eyes on him, Ned looks up from his work, a wide smile breaking across his face as he spots Jon at the edge of the clearing. It's that smile that shatters the last of Jon’s tightly held composure and he finds himself moving before he even realizes that he’s doing it, staggering towards his father, who drops his sword without a moment’s hesitation and stands to catch Jon in his arms instead, leaving Ice to lay forgotten on the ground.

 

The impact when they collide is enough to get a soft grunt from the older man, but neither of them care. Jon fists his hands in his father’s cloak and holds on with all his might, and Ned, for his part is holding on to Jon himself just as tightly, his grip so fierce that the younger man is certain he’ll have bruises later —but none of that matters to either of them. 

How can it, when they are together again? 

 

No matter how many years had passed for Jon, or what blood ran in his veins; to Jon, Ned Stark is, was, and always would be his father and nothing would ever change that, no matter what some dead Septon’s diary said..this was his father, and Jon has missed him every single day since his murder. 

 

It feels so real that Jon can smell the blade-oil his father favored on the older man’s hands and the musk of Ned’s fur edged cloak as Jon buries his face in the curve of his father’s neck: just as he had when he was a boy, breathing in the bitter-pine scent of the soap Old Nan made every year for the whole castle to use. 

Ned smelled of home, of family and of peace, things Jon had long since given up hoping to experience again.

 

His father holds him tightly, stroking Jon’s hair with careful hands until the younger man can get hold of himself again. It takes a while, much to Jon’s chagrin but eventually Jon gathers himself enough to look at his father again; he expects to have to lean back and look up at the older man, but Jon unexpectedly finds himself to be standing eye to eye with him instead, it takes the both of them aback for a moment, matching expressions of surprised puzzlement on both their faces.

 

It's a strange experience, because in Jon’s memories Ned Stark had always been a giant, a towering figure he could never match… yet now here they stood as equals. 

 

“Look at you,” Ned says at last, his gray eyes shining as he studies Jon’s face like it’s something precious that he wants to commit to memory just as direly as Jon had only moments before. 

Ned spreads his palm over the side of Jon’s face, one rough thumb following the scar over Jon’s eye carefully as he smiles at him and Jon knows the look on his father’s face. 

 

It’s pride. 

 

“You’re a man grown, you have more scars than I do, now,” Ned says fondly.

 

“ Da,” Jon can only barely manage to choke out the word, but the look of stricken guilt on Ned’s face when he hears it spoke volumes about his own feelings.

 

Jon hadn’t called Ned Stark ‘Da’ in years, not since he’d left the nursery he’d once shared with Robb and moved to the servants quarters when he was five. After the move and the conversation he’d had with his father about his position in their household, Jon had always been careful thereafter not to be seen to be too familiar with his father in case Lady Stark took offense. 

From that day forward, Jon’s father had always been 'Lord Stark’, or very occasionally ‘father’ if they were in private, but the word comes easily now, as if Jon had never stopped using it at all.

 

“I’m so sorry, Jon.” Ned murmurs, as he looks into Jon’s dark eyes with regret written all over his craggy face. 

“ I should have told you about your mother years ago. I should have told you when you asked me, before I left,” Ned says shaking his head ruefully, “-but I was a coward. I was a damned coward because I thought you’d be upset and I didn’t want our last words before a long journey to be angry ones.” 

 

Ned reluctantly loosened his grip on Jon, eventually looking away from the younger man and dragging one hand through his shaggy, gray streaked hair and when he did look at Jon again his eyes were damp and sad as he spoke, and his voice was ragged with pain.

 

“ I thought we had time, lad....but I was wrong, I was wrong and it was you that paid the price for it. “ Ned shut his eyes and looked away, and it took everything inside of Jon not to reach out to his father, not say or do something to make that look fade from Ned Stark’s face.

 

Ned shook his head and sighed, opening his gray eyes again,” It’s always been you that paid, when I wasn’t strong enough or brave enough to do what I should’ve. “ the older man said bitterly.

Jon watches wide-eyed as his father turns from him, eventually kicking a rock into the pond by the tree and watching it sink out of sight before he speaks again, the tone of Ned’s voice scathing and mocking...something Jon had never in all his life heard from the man before.

 

“The Honorable Ned Stark,” Ned drawls, before snorting derisively. 

 

“ Honorable my arse, aye...I was so honorable that I let my wife treat my child as if he were dirt beneath her boots because I was too cowardly to tell her the truth because I knew she would be angry that I hadn’t told her sooner.” 

 

“ Da-“, Jon starts to say, but Ned cuts him off before he can finish.

 

“ No, lad...not this time, there’s been enough of you carrying other men’s burdens for one lifetime. It’s time for me to be the father you needed.” Ned sighs heavily, looking down at his own weathered hands.

 

“ The father you deserved.” 

 

Jon doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing at all, choosing to listen instead. 

 

“On the way back from Dorne, I carried you in a sling across my chest you know-“ Ned says, pushing Jon’s dark hair out of his eyes, just as he’d done when Jon was small a faint smile curving his father’s thin lips at the memory. 

“ I was a young man, back then. Full of fire and more confidence than I should’ve had... and I didn’t have the first bloody clue what to do with a newborn babe,” the older man said, chuckling ruefully. 

“I was absolutely terrified to let you out of my sight, lad. I don’t know if I can even explain how ..how afraid I was. You were such a tiny wee thing, then, and always grumbling and grizzling unless I held you, quite the sight we made, I’m sure.” 

 

Ned sat back down beneath the weirwood again, and motioned for Jon to join him, and when he did, Ned put one hand on his shoulder and offered him a watery smile. 

“I was so terrified that you’d die, Jon, babies do sometimes, no matter how well cared for they are, or how loved...and back then I didn’t know my arse from a hole in the ground when it came to looking after a child.” Ned shut his eyes for a long moment, before continuing.

 

“ I was so sure I was going to do something wrong, and that you’d die and I’d have failed you just as I failed your mother. “

 

“I loved her so much, Jon. I can’t... “ Ned’s voice cracked and suddenly Jon found himself fighting tears as well. 

 

“I loved all my brothers of course, but it was Lyanna that I loved best. I would have done anything for her.” Ned rasped brokenly. 

 

“ I know, Da.” Jon murmured, reaching out and giving his father’s shoulder a cautious squeeze. 

 

“ I lived in terror for near a year, waiting to see if your eyes were going to change. It happens sometimes, with babies. They can start out one shade at first and then end up another...but thanks be to all the gods, your eyes stayed dark. The Stark in you bred true, and when I was certain, that was when I headed home. “

 

That took Jon aback, filling his face with confusion. “ I don’t understand-“ he began, but Ned cut him off again, a solemn look on his face.

 

“If your eyes had gone purple, or your hair grown in silver I meant to take you and run to Essos. I couldn’t have hidden you at Winterfell if you’d looked like a Targaryen, Jon. I swore to your mother I would keep you safe and that was what I meant to do. “ Ned said grimly. 

 

“—but what about Robb and Lady Stark?” Jon asked, confusion clouding his face. 

 

“I chose you instead, Jon. It wasn’t even really a choice, if you’d shown any signs of Targaryen blood you and I would never have returned to Winterfell. I would have taken you to Pentos, or Braavos, perhaps I might’ve even sought out Viserys and Daenerys. I don’t really know what I would have done, but I do know that I couldn’t have taken you to Winterfell, so when your eyes and hair stayed dark it was like a gift from the gods, because I knew we could go home together.”

 

“ You were over a year old when we arrived at Winterfell, I lied to Catelyn about your age. You’re older than Robb by more than 6 moons. I claimed you were younger than you were, young enough that you had to have been conceived after she and I wed. Long after your mother’s death. “

“ I didn’t trust her then, Jon. I couldn’t. She was so angry, furious and bitter that I had stayed gone so long and left her and Robb alone, only to return to her with another woman’s child in my arms. “

“Only two men alive knew the truth of who you were, me and Howland Reed and I meant to keep it that way because what a man doesn’t know, he can’t accidentally give away. loved Lady Stark, Jon, the Gods know I did...but I wasn’t blind to her faults. Cat always believed herself to be more canny than she really was, and she relied too much on how things seemed on the surface, and put far too much stock in reputation and appearances. “ Ned shook his head then, and Jon could see that his steely grey eyes were gleaming with determination. 

 

“So I said nothing, and you paid the price for my silence.” Jon had never in his life heard his father sound so bitter before.

 

“You were doing what you thought was right, Da.” Jon said softly. “I know more than I’d like about difficult choices, now. Sometimes there are no good choices, only lesser evils.” 

 

Ned smiled back at Jon, but it was wan and tired.

 

“ Aye lad, so you do,..” Ned murmured sadly.. “ So you do.”

 

It’s the crack of a branch underfoot that makes the both of them look up suddenly, and the face they see is one Jon hadn’t expected...but which seemed not to surprise Ned at all. 

 

“Bran?” Jon breathes, wide eyed and stunned.


	12. Bran

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All that glitters is not gold.

“ Hello, big brother.” Bran says, and the smile that blooms across his face is one of the most beautiful things Jon has ever seen. This is Bran, the brother Jon remembers with life in his eyes and a real smile on his thin Stark lips. He runs to Jon, and though Bran is nearly as tall as Jon himself now, Jon picks him up and swings him around anyway, feet off the ground and just as it always had before the fall, it makes Bran laugh. A sound Jon hasn’t heard since before leaving for the Watch. 

 

Before everything had gone so terribly wrong. 

 

When Jon sets the smaller boy down on his feet again, he can’t keep the confusion off his face. “ Not that I’m not happy to see you, Little Wolf, but what are you doing here?” Jon’s face pales as a terrible thought occurs to him and he looks down at Bran worriedly. 

“Did something happen? Did someone hurt you in King’s Landing?” Panic is rising up like a tide inside of him at the very idea of something having happened to Bran, Jon didn’t mind being dead, he had more than a little practice at it after all and he’d been certain that this was the afterlife from the moment he’d laid eyes on their father but Bran didn’t belong here. Not yet. 

He was supposed to be safe. 

 

The look in Bran’s eyes is sad, and he hangs his head, refusing to meet Jon’s gaze for a long moment, but when he finally tilts his face up again Jon can see that he’s ashamed.

 

“ Jon...I’ve been as good as dead since the moment the wights killed Hodor. That thing on the throne in King’s Landing... that’s not me. It hasn’t been me for a very long time.” The smaller boy rasps miserably, his jaw clenching in helpless fury. 

 

The moment the words leave Bran’s lips Jon’s blood runs cold. 

 

“What?” He breathes, wide eyed and stunned. 

 

Bran sighs and walks over to the heart tree, sitting down beside their father, who puts a comforting hand on the boy’s skinny shoulder.

“I’ll try and explain, but Jon...you should know that I’m not even entirely sure how it happened, myself.” Bran warns, as Jon settles himself on his opposite side, mirroring their father.

 

Bran shuts his eyes, and Jon can see the guilt on his face before the younger boy pushes it away and hardens his resolve.

“When I went North of the Wall, it was to find the Three Eyed Raven...he’d been sending me visions, dreams, calling me to him; I thought that when I got there he’d show me how to mend my legs. “ the boy snorts bitterly. 

 

“ It was a stupid dream. I would never walk again...but he promised that I would fly. He said I was late but that we still had time, and we did, the Night King and his slaves couldn’t reach us as long as the magic of the Children maintained the wards, we had time... right up until I did something stupid.” Bran clenched his teeth so tightly that Jon could hear his his jaw creak. 

“I was curious, so I broke the rules he set out for me. I disobeyed him....and when the Night King grabbed me it gave him the bridge he needed to shatter the wards, AND the Wall.” Bran picked up a stick from the ground and used it like a quill, drawing in the dirt in front of them. 

 

“Magic is...strange. Deep Magic is even stranger. I’ll try to make it as simple as I can, but it still makes MY brain hurt, so don’t get your hopes up.” Bran said as he drew a long line in the dirt with the stick. 

 

“This is the Wall. “ he said, before carefully making markings at regular intervals along the length of the line he’d drawn. 

 

“Here’s Castle Black.” 

 

“This is the Nightfort.” Bran explained, drawing another careful mark. 

“

 

 

“ Here is Eastwatch. “ 

 

Jon frowned before interrupting. “ I was Lord Commander of the Watch, Bran. I think I know where my own garrisons are.” No matter how hard he tried, Jon couldn’t keep the wry amusement from his voice, even though it won him a thunderous scowl from Bran.

 

“Let your brother speak, Jon.” Ned said grimly, which silenced Jon once more and made his ears go red with embarrassment. 

 

After a moment, and a bit of a glare Bran continued,” The Anchor, was here,” He said quietly, making a mark far beyond the Wall. 

“ That was where I found the Three Eyed Raven...and what few remained of the Children of the Forest.” 

“I...I’m not entirely sure how to explain this next bit but I’ll do my best but I need to tell you a few things first though so it will make sense.”

 

The Wall was built by the Men, Giants and the Children. Everybody knows that, but what most didn’t is that it was the Children who originally created the White Walkers, “ Bran said softly.

 

“They took a mortal man and bound him to the Heart Tree and then they plunged a shard of magic charged Dragonglass into his heart, creating the Night King. He was the first White Walker.” Bran looked up and met Jon’s eyes grimly. 

 

“He was a Stark, Jon,” and even as the words leave Bran’s lips Jon feels his blood run cold in his veins  
.

 

“There is a reason that there must always be a Stark in Winterfell. We forgot the truth of why we needed to do it as the ages drifted by, but as long as we DID it....it didn’t really matter. For ten thousand years we kept a Stark in Winterfell, and so the Wall held fast, and the Night King was bound in his prison in the Lands of Always Winter” 

Bran kept drawing as he spoke, slowly but surely building up a map at their feet, a strange pattern beginning to emerge from the markings on both sides of the Wall. 

 

“ It was Stark blood that powered the bindings on the Night King, you see the Children couldn’t contain him alone...they didn’t have the strength but we could, because he was ours before he was theirs and so it became our family’s duty to be his jailers. Until the end of time, if need be.” 

Jon sneaks a glance at his father’s face and finds that the other man looks as grim and shaken as Jon himself. 

 

“Now, here’s where it gets complicated.” Bran said as he started to connect the marks he’d made. It was a rune, Jon realized suddenly. Each settlement beyond the Wall and each garrison along its length. The entire North was a Rune, the shape of is so familiar, but Jon can’t seem put his finger on where he’d seen it before. 

 

“ The Anchor balanced the bindings beyond the Wall, drawing from the magic of the Children to imprison the Night King in a great fortress of ice far in the North..but over time the Children dwindled in number until only a few were left to keep watch and feed the spell, “ There was a sadness in Bran’s expression that Jon had never seen before.

 

“ They had a choice to make, they knew that they could either focus on the prison and keep the Night King isolated or they could allow the Wall to fall....but they couldn’t continue to do both”

 

“ It was an impossible choice, Jon.” Bran continued. 

 

“The Children knew that If they set him free to roam that he’d begin building his army again just as he did before, but even so he would still be pinned beyond the Wall itself. He could ravage everything beyond it .....but no further for as long as the Wall was intact.”

“On the other hand, if they chose to keep him in his prison and withdraw their magic from the Wall itself then the Children could hold him there for a while longer; but not forever, Jon. They knew that when the last of them perished there would be nothing left to stand between the Night King and the rest of the world. He’d sweep down on us at his leisure and none of us would see it coming. “

 

“ They chose the Wall.” Bran said solemnly. 

 

“ ....think of it as...an amputation, they severed themselves from the Ice Prison and fed all their remaining magic into the Wall. They let him go, but while they couldn’t leave their tree, the Night King couldn’t enter it either. It was a stalemate. For a while, at least. “ 

 

“As long as there was a Stark in Winterfell, the Wall would hold, but the problem is that we weren’t holding it alone. At least, we weren’t supposed to. The Night’s Watch wasn’t just a group of glorified guardsmen Jon; they were also powering the Wall itself.”

 

Bran kept talking, ignoring the look of abject horror spreading across Jon’s face. “ The oath you took was more than empty words. It was also magic. A sort of permission and a binding all in one, tying the lives of the men that spoke it to the Wall and allowing it to feed itself from their...their life force, I suppose you’d call it.” 

 

Jon felt like he was going to be sick. “....and when men stopped coming to join the Watch, it weakened the Wall.” Jon rasped hoarsely, and the look of solemn regret on Bran’s face told him he was right.

 

His fears were further confirmed when Bran gave him a small nod. 

 

“The magic was tied to our blood, true enough, but it was only a focus ...a link between the Night King and the bindings. You’re absolutely right about the problem. You see, every castle along the Wall itself was part of the spell. Think of magic itself as uhm,-“Bran fumbled for an analogy for a brief moment before one finally came to him. 

 

“Think of magic itself las being something like letters. Alone, they don’t make much sense, but when you put them together in the right order they become words. Now, you can usually still read a word even if it’s missing a letter or two. It’s harder, but you can puzzle it out, but if you take enough letters away the word stops making sense and ceases to be a word at all,becoming jumbled letters again . “ Bran said. 

“ The Watch and it’s garrison were the letters, the Wall itself was the word, and together they balanced the magic between the two sides of the Wall, keeping it steady along its total length, so when the Watch dwindled in numbers more and more letters went missing’ making the word unstable. You could still puzzle it out, but it wasn’t right. “

 

“ It was us leaving Winterfell that took away one too many letters, Jon, because with us gone there was nobody to focus the magic and so it started breaking down. When the Night King used his dragon to bring down the Wall. He wasn’t breaking the binding. By then it was already just a glorified hunk of ice. Without its magic it was just a physical barrier. “ 

“...I think I’m going to be sick.” Jon said, fighting the urge to vomit and it was only Ned’s hand on his shoulder that kept him steady.

“It gets worse. Much worse.” Bran said grimly. 

 

“How can it POSSIBLY get worse, Bran?” Jon said, his voice taking on a tone of bitter hysteria, rising in volume as he spoke. 

 

“ All of this was our fault! All those deaths, all the suffering and the loss and the bloodshed was because of US. It was us all along.” He didn’t even know how to begin to wrap his mind around what he’d just learned. 

 

“ The thing sitting in King’s Landing wearing my face is the Night King, Jon.” Bran said softly, the words rocking Jon to the foundations of his soul. 

“ It was him all along. You see, I was warged into Hodor when he died, and not just warged into him normally, it was worse, much worse, because I was also in two places and times at once. Part of me was in the past with Hodor’s younger self, I used him to bridge the gap between past and present so I could control his older self. “ Bran’s face twisted in guilty misery as he spoke of Hodor

 

“Hodor’s mind was never meant to be able to withstand the strain of something like that. He wasn’t a Greenseer, he had no magic ...so when I used him to do something his body and mind were never meant to do he fractured under the strain. I was the one who made Wylis into Hodor, Jon. He was the way he was because of what I did to him.”

 

“ When he died, I was caught between one time and another. No one is supposed to do what I did Jon; and for good reason. This next bit is where things get ...fuzzy. “ 

 

“ Hodor dying was a shock...it’s hard to put into words, but the best way to describe how it felt is that it was like drowning in a swift river. Death is the river, and our physical bodies are like boats. They keep us on the surface and protect us from it, but when the body dies the soul has nothing to hold onto and so it gets swept away by the current to go to wherever it is that souls go. When Hodor died, I had one foot in his boat and one foot in my own so when his boat came apart it dumped me into the water too.”

 

Bran took a slow breath to steady himself before continuing .” it hurt, Jon...it hurt more than I can describe. I was in the water, but somehow I managed to keep a handhold on my own boat.  
I was alive, and I was dead, and in that in between place as I fought to climb back into my own boat the Night King was waiting for me. I’d touched something I was never supposed to touch and by doing so it gave him the chance to use my soul as a bridge to climb into my boat. 

 

“ He stole my boat and cast me out into the water to be swept away. He’s been living as Bran Stark ever since, with no one the wiser.” Bran said bitterly. 

 

“Anybody who knew me well was dead, and so he used being the ‘Three Eyed Raven’ to excuse his behavior. He made sure that nobody could gainsay him, that nobody would be left to fight him. You, the Dragon Queen,Arya and Sansa...all of you were blindly dancing to the tune he played for you. A whisper here, a nudge there. Making Sansa afraid and keeping her isolated, a word here and there to make her mistrust the Dragon Queen and cause a rift between us all, he whispered little comments to the smallfolk to make them hostile and spread rumors. All of it was for a reason. He was making certain that when the time comes there will be no one and nothing that can stand in his way. No more Targaryens, No more Starks, no more Dragons, he bled you all nearly dry at Winterfell and when you believed you’d won...he made certain to create a situation to keep everyone off balance and get him where he wanted to be all along. “

 

“Gods.” Jon breathed, as the magnitude of what had happened finally began to sink in. 

 

Bran sighed softly and picked up a red leaf from the tree root beside him; twirling it pensively in his fingers before speaking again. “When he’s certain there’s no one left to fulfill the prophecy of Azor Ahai, he’ll reveal himself for what he is and when that happens it will be the end of everything. “

 

“We didn’t win the Battle for the Dawn, Jon. We lost, we just didn’t know it yet. “ 

 

.


	13. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, they wanted to wake the dragon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not entirely happy with this chapter, and I might make changes later but glaring at it in word isn't making it any better so here you are.

Jon stares morosely down into the murky water of the spring beneath the Heart Tree, watching as scarlet leaves drift lazily across its placid surface, an expression of bleak hopelessness on his pale, scarred face. 

Jon wonders as he looks into his own tired, dark eyes what it was that he’d done for his life to be so cursed, and it *was* cursed, of that he had no doubt whatsoever. The only question in Jon’s weary mind was what crime it was that he had committed that had made his lot in life one of unceasing bitterness, deprivation and pain. 

No matter what Jon turns his hand to, no matter how carefully he plans, the end result of his efforts never fails to cause him suffering. Davos had told him to fail again, and so he had, in grand fashion as seemed to be his sole talent in life.

Spectacular failure.

 

Jon is so tired and lost in his own thoughts that he doesn’t even jump when Ned puts one hand on his shoulder, his craggy face appearing beside Jon’s own in the water’s reflection. He meets the other man’s eyes only reluctantly.

 

“You have to go back, Jon,” Ned says gently, his voice is so solemn and regretful. His father’s conciliatory tone grates on Jon’s already worn nerves and he hates the pity he can see gleaming in the older man’s eyes with every fiber of his being. 

 

. 

 

“I know,” Jon replies, clenching his jaw tightly and closing his eyes to avoid seeing it a moment longer, but even to his own ears, his voice sounds hollow.

 

Defeated.

“I’m tired, Da,” Jon rasps bitterly, but he already that his words will make no difference, because when had that ever mattered when it came to him? No matter what Jon felt in his own heart, something inside him just wouldn’t abide inaction, cowardice. He’d spent his entire life trying to do what was right, trying to be as good a man as he could be. 

 

He’d still ended up right back where he started, regardless. He’s tired. He’s more than tired, he’s exhausted and he knows that there’s no end in sight for him. There never is. 

 

“ I know, son. I know you are.” Ned says, and it’s the soft, placating tone in his father’s voice that finally puts paid to the very last strands of Jon’s self-control, and suddenly the younger man finds himself whirling around abruptly, black cloak snapping like a dragon’s wings as he turns to face his father, dark eyes burning with fury and misery. 

 

“No, no you don’t! “ Jon snarls back, the words ripping their way out of him at last. They’d been stuck in his throat for so long that Jon didn’t even remember what it felt like not to choke on them. 

 

“You don’t KNOW a gods' cursed thing! You died, Da! You died, and then the world went mad and tore us apart! You don’t know what it’s been like for me, or for any of us for that matter! You never did!” 

 

It’s almost as if Jon is watching himself from outside his own body as the words he’s spent years holding back tear their way out of him at last in one dizzying rush. All the things he’d never had the nerve to say, all the times he’d held his tongue when everything inside himself had screamed to argue, all in the name of winning so small flicker of approval from the man who he had believed was his father. 

 

“You’ve never had to really SACRIFICE anything in all your bloody life, Eddard Stark!” Jon spits, dark eyes stinging with angry tears of frustrated rage. 

 

“ How fucking DARE you tell me you *know* as if you have the faintest idea of what it means to do the things I’ve done.”

 

It feels to Jon as if he might be possessed, and he wonders if perhaps he’s gone mad at last, his Targaryen blood winning out in the end as it had with his grandfather and so many before him.

 

“ You don’t know what it means to give up all you have, all you are, all you ever could be for others! “ He spits, and he can see that Ned Stark’s face has gone bone white with pure shock at his sudden outburst, the poleaxed expression on his father’s face would have been funny at any other moment, but Jon has entirely run out of levity. 

 

“ Jon, cal-“ Ned starts, perhaps intending to try and smooth over the situation but Jon cuts him off abruptly, black-gloved hand slicing through the air like a sword blade. No, he won’t let Ned Stark dictate the terms of this conversation. For once, the Honorable Eddard Stark was going to listen to someone besides himself.

“ No Da, not this time. You’re going to listen for a change. I’ve spent my whole life listening while other men tried to tell me that they know best and I’m well and truly done with it now. I’m not a little boy anymore, and I’m not your bastard, but by all rights and blood I am your King and by all the gods you WILL hear me this time. You’ve spent years talking while other men listen, now it’s my turn.” 

 

Somehow, Jon has managed to stop shouting, but it’s a near thing, as the fury inside him simmers, threaten ing to boil over at any moment, like a cooking pot left too long on the fire.

 

“You let Lady Catelyn torment me for years because you feared for your marriage but you were too selfish to foster me out, or even try and control her cruelty. You let me go off to the Wall, knowing who I was and what it would mean, knowing the life I was choosing without even knowing what I was giving up and without offering me any alternative but taking the black to escape Lady Stark and her hatred. “ 

 

Jon stalked a few steps away, and he could see Bran watching the two of them from a short distance away, his Tully blue eyes wide with horror and surprise. He’d never seen Jon angry before, and he’d certainly never seen him shout, not at anyone…much less at their father. Ned himself wasn’t doing much better than his middle son, because the older man was staring at Jon as if he’d never seen him before, his thin-lipped mouth hanging half-open in pure bewilderment. 

 

“You could have given me a small holdfast, you and I both know it…..there are a hundred run-down old ruins you could have sent me to build a life for myself. I never wanted anything grand, just a place for myself. A place to be happy, but you didn’t. You didn’t and you never intended to in the future, either, even though you knew Lady Catelyn wouldn’t suffer me in the castle with you gone…you didn’t care, though, because an old man dropped dead in King’s Landing and your hateful fool of a wife believed her mad sister’s lies and so off you went. Never to return. “ 

 

“That wasn’t enough though, oh no….because when you rode off you nearly took the truth of who I was to your grave with you, all because you wanted to spare yourself the burden of an uncomfortable conversation..…even knowing that you were going into danger. It didn’t matter that I might never know who I was if something went wrong…as long as you got what YOU wanted. “

 

“ What have you ever sacrificed, Father? You had your happy family, your home, your life, your title...and you bought it all with my shame and suffering. “

 

Now that he’s started talking, Jon finds that he can’t stop, no matter how hard he tries, the words just keep coming, like poison draining from an old wound and not even the guilt in Eddard Stark’s solemn gray eyes is enough to stem the tide.

 

“ You know NOTHING about sacrifice, Eddard Stark. Not the first thing, “ Jon hisses, and as he does, he wonders if it’s possible for a man to die of rage. A lifetime of resentment and smothered fury is pouring out of him and for the first time in his life….Jon doesn’t care a jot how anybody else feels. 

He’s tired of playing the whipping boy. 

 

“—-and the same goes for my foolhardy mother and father. None of you have ever cared for anything but yourselves, your own aims and ambitions, so caught up in your own fears and burdens that the rest of us just stopped mattering. You chose to keep me close when you knew it would be safer for me elsewhere, because I was a piece of my mother and you wanted me near you, but then when you saw that Lady Catelyn despised me and would never forgive me for a crime I never even committed it wasn’t her you punished, it was me. It was always me. You treated Balon Greyjoy’s son better than your own flesh and blood, and the whole castle knew it…and I never questioned it, because you were the Honorable Lord Eddard Stark and I was just your bastard.” 

 

 

“ Let me tell you what sacrifice is, it’s holding the dying body of the woman you love in your arms as she takes her last breaths because duty compelled you to stand against her and her people, who only wanted a chance to survive…all because of the oath you swore.

 

“Sacrifice is breaking ten thousand years of tradition and opening your gates to your enemies even while knowing that if you do, you’ll be hated for it by all around you, yet choosing to do it anyway because life matters more than hate, it has to…because hate can’t save the world, but forgiveness can. Hate won’t build, it won’t feed or shelter or warm a body…all it does is destroy everything it touches. Hate couldn’t save us, but mercy might.” Jon swallows heavily, then makes himself meet Ned’s eyes again, holding the other man’s gaze with his own.

 

“Sacrifice is having your own sworn brothers stab you to death and leave you to die alone in the snow, all because they couldn’t see past their own shortsighted hatred far enough to realize that the dead wouldn’t care what side of the wall a man was born on, and every man, woman, and child left on the other side of that wall would be another soldier in the Night King’s endless army.” 

 

 

“ Don’t you dare tell me you *know* anything about being tired, because you don’t. I’ve given everything I have to protect the people in my care, EVERYTHING. I refused the only thing I ever really wanted because I knew that if I took it, I’d doom the rest of the world in the process.” 

 

“ I murdered the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my days with, I killed her with my own hands because I knew that if I didn’t innocent people would suffer. All because fighting in the war I begged her to help me win broke her spirit. “

 

“ All because I trusted my family more than I trusted her. I trusted Sansa and Arya with my secret, even though Dany begged me not to! She begged me, Father, she pleaded with me to tell no one else who I was because she KNEW what would come of it if I did and word got out...and like the fool I was I thought I knew better than her, I thought that she was just paranoid, because my sisters would never betray me.” 

 

Jon laughed bitterly, dragging a gloved hand through his dark hair and then fisting it tightly as if he wanted to yank a fistful out by the roots. 

“Dany was right all along, she was right about everything….she saw what I didn’t because Sansa put a knife in my back the first opportunity she got. Dany saw it coming, but I didn’t, I didn’t see it because I loved them, because they were my family. ” 

 

It hurt Jon terribly just to think of Sansa and how she’d betrayed him, because no matter what he’d told her at the docks before he sailed to Eastwatch, what she’d done in the name of her own ambition had broken the bond between the two of them more profoundly than Jon would ever be able to truly mend, not even if he wanted to, and in all truth, if Jon were being honest with himself he wasn’t entirely certain he wanted to bother at all. 

.  
“ Sansa hated Dany from the moment she laid eyes on her, and when the people saw Sansa’s hatred for the Dragon Queen they hated Dany too because Sansa was Lady Stark and they took their lead from her, just as they took their lead from Catelyn before her. The moment Dany served her purpose, Sansa started plotting to be rid of her, and I’m sure of me as well. She learned her lessons from Cersei Lannister and Littlefinger, so I don’t know why I was so surprised.”

 

“I’ve fought and I’ve bled and I’ve given everything I had and more to the rest of the world and what do I have to show for it, Father?” Jon spreads his arms out to encompass the nothingness that surrounds him. The look on Eddard Stark’s face was wounded beyond measure, but at the moment it doesn’t impress Jon one bit.

 

“ ....Not a god's damned thing! because everybody but me reaps the benefits of the sacrifices I make, and then they forget me until they need me again.” Jon’s voice is bitter and tired as he sneers. 

 

“— when everything goes to shit they remember me, and then they come begging for more and expect me to pay the price for their comfort once again. That’s all I’ve ever been good for, bleeding so other men don’t have to, but It never ends and I’m TIRED. I’m so gods-damned tired of fighting” his fury is burning itself out, and what is left behind in its wake is only exhausted sorrow and resignation. 

 

Jon’s eyes are world-weary and sorrowful as he meets Ned’s own, and while his father does his best to hide it, the other man is surprised to find that the eyes staring out of Jon’s youthful face are the eyes of an old man instead of a young one. 

 

“ I’m so tired, Father. I’m tired in my very bones and I don’t know how much fight I have left in me anymore. I’m only a man, and no man can fight forever. I don’t have a choice though, do I? I never did, not about any of it. So I’ll go back, and I’ll try and mend this mess we’ve made of the world…but when I’m done, if I live through it that is, I’m taking Ghost and Drogon and I’m going to find Arya and the rest of you lot can go fuck yourselves and try cleaning up your own bloody messes for once. My Watch is ended, and if anybody feels like arguing they can choose between a throat full of fangs, a face full of dragonfire or two feet of Valyrian steel up their arses for their trouble. “ 

 

 

“ I love you both, but I don’t like either of you very much right now, so I’m going to go. Maybe by the next time I die, I won’t feel like throttling the pair of you with my bare hands. “ Jon said, before stomping back towards the treeline, leaving his father and Bran to stand frozen in place, wide-eyed and still trying to wrap their heads around what had just happened. 

 

Ned watches Jon’s back fade into the forest until he can see it no more before he speaks, and though it’s a trifle watery at the edges he laughs softly. 

 

“ To think, I always thought he took after Rhaegar, “ Ned says softly, 

 

“Do you think it worked?” Bran asked as he walked over to his father’s side, looking up at the other man worriedly. 

 

“Gods I hope so, he’s the only hope we have now of mending things…he’s been too much Ice and not enough Fire, and that’s my own doing. “

 

“Not very icy now, is he?” Bran says wryly, arching a brow at his father. 

 

“Assuredly not, and hopefully it will be enough to give him the will to choose his own path instead of following the one the rest of the world makes for him, but If you think that’s bad, let me tell you about the time I ruined your Aunt Lyanna’s favorite saddle.” 

 

Bran smiles at his father and nods before following him back to the tree and the pool beneath it, listening with half an ear as his father spun the tale. They could watch what was to come in the reflection of the water, and Bran had to admit that he was deeply looking forward to seeing Jon give the Night King the ending he truly deserved.


	14. Tormund

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe one day Jon Snow will stop surprising Tormund, but it won't be any time soon.

Tormund had been sitting by Jon Snow’s bedside for hours, the only sound he could hear being the crackle of the low-burning fire in the hearth across the dimly lit room and Ghost’s soft, slightly wheezing breaths. Wilmot had joined him for a while at first—but eventually, age and worry had caught up with the old man and so he’d gone to seek his own bed, which left Tormund to sit alone in the dark with the Lord Commander. 

Not that Tormund minded, of course; he’d sit there for the rest of his life if he had to and not regret a single moment of the time. Jon was Tormund’s friend, his truest, closest friend and Tormund didn’t intend to abandon him now that he had him back again. 

 

Not now, not ever.

He’d spent the last hour since Wilmots’ shamefaced and regretful departure quietly watching Jon Snow sleep; Tormund’s pale eyes fixed steadily on the other man’s profile, hoping that Jon would show even the faintest sign of life. 

 

So far, Tormund had seen nothing of the kind. Jon hadn’t moved a muscle since Tormund himself had carried him to his bed and laid him down on the furs— pale and still as death, his already naturally pale skin gone so icy cold that it had hurt Tormund to touch his bare flesh. 

Tormund had never felt anything like it before, not from a living man and although he didn’t want to be…he couldn’t help but be reminded of the terrible cold that had radiated from the White Walkers, that icy aura that had frozen solid everything it touched, man or beast, living or dead.

 

The dark haired man lay unnaturally still in his wide bed, and although Tormund could see his friend’s chest rise and fall steadily in the firelight, he knew that whatever it was that was happening to Jon was nothing normal. He’d seen Jon sleep many times before, and he knows the look of him then—is well acquainted with the sound of Jon’s breathing and the restless twist of the other man’s body.

 

Tormund is completely certain that whatever it was that grips his friend so tightly, it’s no natural sleep. This is magic at work, Tormund is certain of it; although he’s never seen it's like before. 

 

Tormund doesn’t know why he’s even surprised, and he can’t help but let out a soft huff of amusement at the direction his thoughts have decided to take. The bare truth is that Tormund is well aware that Jon Snow never could take the easy road if there was one ten times harder available to him, Tormund acknowledges that fact to himself with no small measure of fondness as he watches the firelight cast dancing shadows on the unconscious man’s too-pretty face.

 

Jon lays still in a way that Tormund has never seen before... and so regardless of his own ever-increasing weariness, he has no intention whatsoever of leaving Jon’s bedside outside of dire need or the call of nature.

Jon Snow wouldn’t wake alone this time—at least not if Tormund had any say in the matter.

There wasn’t much to do in the meantime as he waited, however, so Tormund finds himself deeply grateful that he’d brought his knitting needles and a ball of the yarn he’d traded for at Winterfell before his departure with him to occupy him during his vigil, because the knitting would at least help him to pass the time. 

It was also useful, which did a great deal to salve Tormund’s guilt at his own idleness. He had a reason for his lack of activity: of course, but that didn’t make it sit any easier with him. 

 

When the Free Folk had first come beyond the Wall, the Southerners had mocked the men of the North when they’d brought their needles and yarn to the fireside or on watch to pass the time. To their bafflement, the kneelers had laughed themselves sick at the sight of Wildling men knitting and called it women’s work, which had taken Tormund, along with all the rest of his people, aback entirely in utter confusion.

That attitude hadn’t lasted past the first few brawls, thankfully, though Tormund had to admit that it had made for some lively arguments before his people had gotten their point across. In the end, the Southerners had lost a few teeth and gained a few broken bones—and the Free Folk went on about their business as they had for the last ten thousand years before crossing the Wall and both sides had then done their best to ignore one another’s idiosyncrasies and habits. 

 

Tormund had long ago given up on understanding Southern folk and their odd ideas; especially when it came to the roles of men and women. 

The Southern way of things had never made any sense whatsoever to Tormund, not one tiny bit…. the very idea of there being tasks meant exclusively for one gender or the other seemed completely ridiculous to him, no matter how many times Jon had tried to explain it to him. Eventually, the younger man had given up, something that Tormund was profoundly grateful for. 

 

They were different people, and that was fine by Tormund.

Among the Free Folk, though, things were much simpler—if you could do a thing, then you did it, and if you couldn’t, then you found someone else who *could* do it instead and did something that they couldn’t in return; because what did it matter if the person had a cock or a cunt under their furs, as long as the task got done? 

No man or woman of the Free Folk could afford idleness, it was anathema to them in the harsh world in which they lived. When your very survival depended on trust and hard work, and everyone doing their part as best they could …ability was all that mattered, all that SHOULD matter. if you could, you did, and that was the beginning and end of it.

All of the folk of the True North could knit, be they man, woman or child, if they had a free moment then the wise took the opportunity to be productive…because wasted time was just another chance for the snow and ice to creep up unseen to steal a man or woman’s life away. 

 

Being able to make your own clothing and put another layer of protection between yourself and the ever-hungry maw of Winter was a vital skill for any man or woman beyond the Wall; just like cooking or cleaning or healing or birthing.

 

In the lands beyond the Wall, it was madness to separate skills between one group and another, in many cases a fatal madness in a land as harsh as theirs. Perhaps southerners had the luxury of doing such things, but Beyond the Wall was another matter entirely.

 

If a man and his woman were alone when her time came, what good would he be to her if he didn’t know how to aid her in bringing their child into the world, and what’s more… what sort of father would such a man make if he didn’t know how to care for their child properly? The Old Gods weren’t kind, and if his woman died in childbirth, or was lost to some illness or accident later on who would raise their child if not their father? 

Life was more than fucking and fighting, and so a man capable of only those two things would be next to useless North of the Wall.

No true spear-wife would tolerate such a man as a partner, and if word got out about his lack of skill, that man would swiftly find himself unwelcome at every hearth-fire and bedroll from the Wall to the edge of the world for the rest of his days. The women of the Free-Folk had little patience for fools, and they had no trouble at all with making that abundantly clear to anyone unfortunate enough to cross them. 

 

Weakness has no place amongst the Free Folk, and all know it from their earliest memories be they, man or woman. Weakness is death, for both the weakling and all who would depend on them. In all fairness, however, things were no kinder or simpler for the women of the Free Folk, because although much is expected of a man of the People, the same is expected of women as well in return. 

 

A weak woman would never find a man amongst the Free Folk—because children aside, if a man was injured or sick, what good would his woman be to him if she couldn’t hunt or track or butcher game on her own, and what would happen to them both if she couldn’t fight at his side if the need arose? Even worse, what if he were hurt or sick …how would she defend herself or her man until he either healed or died and if he *did* die and leave her alone then how would such a woman protect her children or lead a tribe in his absence? 

She couldn’t, she would be helpless and so she would die, and then so would her children and anybody else who had depended on her strength to sustain them. 

 

The snow has no pity, and the ice isn’t moved by the plight of men or beasts. Winter is the great equalizer, and only by working together is survival beyond the Wall possible. 

So Tormund knits, and the Spear-Wives fight and he dares any man or woman to look down their nose at him or them for it, because when the white winds blow and the ice flies it is Tormund and his folk that will be cozy and warm and safe while the Southerners and their odd ideas freeze to death in the night or get eaten by Snow Bears. 

 

Tormund spends the majority of his time watching the candlelight flicker over Jon Snow’s scarred, pale face than he does knitting, however, despite his noble intentions. No man is perfect, after all.

 

He’s a good looking man, their King Crow, as far as such things go—but Tormund had never envied Jon Snow his pretty face, not once, because he’d seen first hand that every other aspect of the man’s life was one misery after another. 

 

If anything, Tormund pitied him...not that he’d ever tell the other man that to his face. 

 

The gods hated Jon Snow, Tormund knew it without a doubt— and so the Wildling man would take his fire-kissed hair and ruddy face and crooked teeth gladly so long as it meant being spared Jon Snow’s shit luck. A pretty face mattered fuck-all if the man who owned it stumbled from one disaster to another as if it were his calling in life.

The only thing Tormund had ever really wanted of Jon’s was his wolf, and even then it wasn’t so much that Tormund wanted THAT wolf, but more that he wanted a companion of his own like him. Unfortunately for Tormund, he’s never been a warg— so he feeds Ghost little treats when he can and scratches the direwolf’s fluffy ears when invited to do so and counts himself lucky to have the wolf as a friend. 

 

It’s enough, because Tormund has never been a jealous man, and he’s always counted himself happier for it. 

Thinking of Ghost draws Tormund’s attention to the wolf himself, who currently lays sleeping contentedly with his master, the direwolf taking up more room on the large bed than Jon himself, his massive white-furred head laid protectively over his master’s breast—red eyes flickering open now and again to check that Tormund is still in his chair nearby before drifting closed once more. 

It was Ghost that told Tormund that Snow would wake again, Tormund was content to let the rest of the castle work themselves into a frenzy of panic as they liked, Tormund would wait with his friend and hopefully finish his new gloves in the process, because as long as Ghost was calm he knew that one way or another all would be well. 

Regardless of that certainty, Tormund had to admit that had HAD been a trifle worried when Wilmot had come howling at him about a dragon kidnapping the Lord Commander before Tormund had even had a chance to put down the dead deer he’d been carrying in from his hunt—what man wouldn’t be? It was enough to fluster anybody, so Tormund hadn’t truly blamed the old man for his panic. 

An unexpected dragon was worth a bit of panic if anything ever was.

 

What kept Tormund more phlegmatic about the situation than the others was that he’d seen Jon on dragonback before, which meant that he wasn’t entirely surprised by the idea of the dark-haired man with a dragon, Tormund had also heard the same tale the rest of them had, the one that whispered about Jon Snow being kin to the Dragon Queen. 

What did surprise Tormund was that it was the Dragon Queen’s black dragon that Jon was riding when he’d finally returned to Castle Black.

Tormund didn’t know why, but for some odd reason, he’d thought perhaps it was the green one, Rhaegal, that had returned for Jon. He’d heard the beast had died, but Jon died and come back, so why not a dragon? It made about as much sense to Tormund as every other mad thing that seemed to happen to Jon Snow.

 

It wasn’t the green though, Tormund had seen right away when the creature came in to land outside of Castle Black. No, the dragon Jon was riding was the same dark-scaled, hateful beast that the Southerners said had burned King’s Landing to ash and destroyed an army entirely by itself in the span of an hour. Drogon was the stuff of both dreams and nightmares, and Tormund wasn’t entirely sure if he was pleased for Jon or terrified for him that the dragon seemed to have decided that Jon was its new master. 

Tormund had ridden on the black dragon’s broad back himself, once, and it was something he would take to his grave as one of the most incredible but terrifying moments of his life, but he’d he’d ridden a dragon the same way a tick rides a deer— hanging on for dear life and hoping for the best. That wasn’t what Jon was doing, Jon was controlling the dragon the same way the Dragon Queen had before her death, bending the creature to his will with nothing but his own strength of mind.

 

The dragon had come for Jon, and somehow Jon had tamed it. Maybe one day Jon Snow would stop surprising him, but Tormund knew it probably wouldn’t be any time soon. 

 

At least he wouldn’t be bored in the meantime. 

 

After a while long Tormund pauses in his knitting again to study Jon’s face once more, driven by his own idle curiosity. While Tormund had heard that Jon and the Silver Queen had been kin, he just couldn’t see it himself. No matter how much he looked, all he could see in his friend was the North, not the True North, but North none the less. The only similarity Tormund could find was that both were too pretty for their own good and barking mad for flying about on dragons. 

 

Tormund had flown with the Silver Queen, and it had been like nothing he’d ever experienced before, but he honestly couldn’t help but hope he never had to experience it again. Tormund much preferred for his feet to remain firmly on solid ground. If a man were meant to fly he’d have been born with wings. 

 

Giving up on his knitting, Tormund sets it aside in favor of perching on the edge of Jon’s bed; the movement disturbing Ghost in the process, who opens one red eye and grumbles irritably before shutting it again after a brief warning glare at Tormund to warn him that he best be on his best behavior. 

 

It amuses him, and so Tormund can’t help but huff quietly and reach out to scratch behind the direwolf’s missing ear. It earns him an irritated, abrupt snap of those big white teeth—missing the vulnerable flesh of his hand by half a hair—but Tormund doesn’t bother to flinch at Ghost’s pointed warning. 

 

He does get the message, however, and so he doesn’t try it again. It doesn’t hurt his feelings any that the wolf isn’t interested in his affection because Tormund knows well enough by now that sometimes Ghost is in the mood to be sociable, and sometimes he isn’t…and Tormund himself is wise enough to never push the white wolf past the boundaries it sets for him. 

Ghost is a direwolf, and that will never change—no matter how long he lives around men. 

 

If Ghost wanted to bite him, Tormund knowns that he would have. Ghost missed his hand on purpose and was simply making it clear that he wasn’t impressed with Tormund’s boldness. The white direwolf wasn’t a tame creature, and Tormund never expected him to be. Ghost tolerates most men only for love of Jon Snow, and while there were a precious few people Ghost seemed to truly like—the wolf never let any of them forget that he was a wild thing, not a pet. 

 

Just like Jon Snow himself. Jon had never been made to be a tame thing either, Tormund had seen it in him from the first moment he met him. Jon was meant for open skies and freedom, there was something fierce in him that peeked out from behind those sad, dark eyes now and again—where it was held chained by the same southern madness that so confused Tormund. 

 

The chains wouldn’t hold forever, though. Tormund just hopes that when they do break he’ll be around to see it. 

 

Tormund is so involved with his own thoughts that he doesn’t realize that Jon is awake—at least not until the other man speaks, his voice creaky and rasping —scaring the mortal hell out of Tormund in the process. 

 

 

“I love you like a brother, Tormund, but if you kiss me I’m punching you—just so’s you know.” the dark haired man says, sounding exhausted even though he’d only just woken up.

 

When Tormund can breathe again and his heart stops trying to beat its way out of his chest by brute force he wonders to himself if anyone would blame him if he killed the little shit and blamed it on the dragon. 

 

Ghost’s low warning growl is his only answer. 

 

Damnit.


	15. Jon

It was snowing when Jon at last left Tormund behind to get what little rest he could during what remained of the night and quietly made his way down into the courtyard. The moon hung full and bright in the sky, and Jon couldn’t repress a sigh of resignation as he looked at the ruined gate. 

 

The heavy ironwood timbers had been rent apart like kindling and lay in forlorn heaps in the dirty snow, the once-sturdy wood cracked apart and splintered like pale bone in the moonlight. Jon could see the terrifyingly deep gashes that Drogon’s frantic teeth and claws had made and as he absorbed the scope pf the damage he couldn’t help but think to himself that they were lucky that it was the gate that the black dragon had destroyed and not the rest of Castle Black.

Jon knew all too well the devastation that Drogon was capable of creating—the utter ruin that the dragon’s fury brought with it. He’d seen it first hand in King’s Landing himself as Daenerys rained destruction and death down from the sky above them like a nightmare made flesh. The terrible memory of Drogon spewing fire and fury down on the helpless city below him while the bells rang and the people wailed for a mercy that would never come was something Jon would never forget; not if he lived for a hundred years.

 

No matter how gentle the great black dragon was for him, Jon would never forget what Drogon really was, and what the dragon could do if put in the wrong hands. It was a power Jon had never wanted and yet one he also could not refuse. 

Such was ever the way of duty.

 

Yet, Drogon hadn’t used his fire on Castle Black-which was more mercy than Jon would have expected from the dragon —no matter how fond he was of his rider.

 

The dragon in question lay sleeping in the snow, curled up into an uncomfortable looking ball that took up the majority of the courtyard, his massive bulk compacted as tightly as possible in order to fit into a space that was clearly far too small for him. Drogon was an amorphous tangle of black and scarlet scales and leathery wings—-his great whip of a tail protruding from the gate itself, too large to fit with the rest of him. 

 

The black dragon filled every inch of empty space inside the walls and as Jon stared at him he couldn’t help but sigh tiredly. What a wretched mess it all was, and even worse there was no end in sight for either of them; at least not any time soon. Jon felt helpless in a way he never had before, how was he supposed to save Bran? How was he going to control Drogon and himself and the power he could already feel pressing at him from all sides already? 

 

Jon had no answers, only ever more questions and so he found himself pinching the bridge of his own nose and shutting his eyes tightly, praying to the Old Gods for the patience not to lose his temper with his dragon and with himself—when at last Drogon began to stir. 

 

Jon heaved a heavy sigh and dropped his hand to watch the awkward process, it was almost comical how carefully the dragon moved, delicately shifting his massive bulk and clearly doing his best not to cause any more damage as he rearranged himself so that he might look at Jon more easily. It wasn’t particularly dignified—but Jon did appreciate the effort.

 

Drogon seemed to sense Jon’s confusion and irritation, because that great serpentine neck twisted carefully around so that the dragon could sniff delicately at Jon’s chest—blowing hot, smoke-scented air into Jon’s somber face in the process. 

It was the expression in the dragon’s red eyes that dissipated the last of Jon’s foul mood and pulled a weak smile to his lips. Drogon looked for all the world as if he were relieved and a moment later, Jon realized in belated wonder that the black dragon had been afraid. Not for himself, of course. No, Drogon had been afraid for Jon—and unless Jon very much missed his guess there was more than a little regret on that massive black-scaled face. 

 

Jon had never imagined that dragons could feel such a thing, after all, who’d ever heard of a guilty dragon? 

 

Dany told Jon long ago that her children were not beasts, of course. She had, in fact, scolded him more than once for referring to them as such in conversation and while Jon had believed her at the time and had taken heed of her warnings as best he could he couldn’t deny now that in some small part of himself it seemed he’d held on to the idea that her claims were born of a mothers blind devotion and not practicality and plain truth. 

 

The dragons were not beasts to Daenerys, that much was true—to Dany they were her children—but Jon knew in his own heart that a mother’s love was blind and all consuming and could sometimes obscure plain truth. 

 

Jon had to accept now —with more than a little shame— that he’d been wrong as he looked up into those sorrowful scarlet eyes. 

 

Terribly, overwhelmingly wrong, because Dany had been right all along, no mere beast could have worn the expression of profound sorrow on its face that Drogon did as he looked down at Jon. 

No simple animal could feel regret.

 

Jon was still trying to process his revelation when the dragon in question carefully and ever-so- slowly lowered his massive head to nudge Jon’s chest delicately with the very tip of his snout, nosing at the heavy leather of Jon’s gambeson and drawing in a large lungful of the smaller man’s scent before huffing out a heated breath that would have scalded any other man to the bone. It only felt pleasantly warm to Jon, however, driving away the eternal, grinding chill of the Wall.

Fire could not kill a dragon, and no matter his own feelings on the subject Jon could no longer deny the truth to himself. He was a dragon as much as he was a wolf and no amount of wishful thinking would change it. He could no more deny the Targaryen in him than he could the Stark—-and now it was up to him to make that name more than a curse. He was Jon, but he was Aegon too and that meant that he had to find a balance between the two if he was ever to truly be himself.

 

Jon pushed all thought of regret from his mind however as he caressed the small scales of Drogon’s nose, smiling a bit when the dragon offered him a tender welcoming chirp that at last won a soft laugh from Jon’s reluctant lips. It never failed to amuse him—the range of sounds the dragons could make—both fierce and tender, ear shattering and soft. 

 

Drogon became more forceful in his affection once he’d assured himself of Jon’s welcome—tenderly pressing as much of his nose against the smaller man as he could manage without knocking him down. The dragon settled eventually right above Jon’s beating heart with a delicacy that should have been impossible for a creature of such great size. 

This, then, was a dragon’s apology; Jon thought to himself as he stroked Drogon’s face with gentle, careful hands. 

 

“Apology accepted, Cousin.” Jon said as he leaned in to the dragon’s caress, resting his brow for a moment against a ridge of horn and smiling faintly. Drogon’s response was another plaintive, rumbling whistle and after a moment Jon straightened so that he could meet the black dragon’s gaze again. 

A dragon’s heart was in it’s eyes, Jon was rapidly learning—and the expression in Drogon’s was painfully familiar to him. 

 

It was shame.

 

Jon knew shame, how could he not? It had been his constant companion and burden to bear from the moment of his birth; a burden he had once believed that he would carry to his grave as well and Jon found that he could not abide seeing it in Drogon a moment longer. 

 

“It’s alright, I’m fine. So’s Ghost.” Jon soothed, hands sliding over the soft hide by Drogon’s eye, smiling as the pupil dilated and the dragon’s expression went soft and gentle—or at least as gentle as a dragon could be. 

 

“ No harm done, I know you didn’t mean it, “ Jon murmured quietly as he noticed a fleck of mud dried to the scales by Drogon’s eye and set about carefully picking it free.

 

Drogon said nothing back, of course—but even if he’d been able to speak as men did he didn’t need to. Jon could *feel* the black dragon’s relief—the abrupt easing of the heavy burden of the black dragon’s guilty conscience. 

 

More importantly, Jon could suddenly feel the love his dragon bore for him as clearly as if it came from inside his own breast and it shook him to the foundations of his soul, staggering him in the real world until he had to cling fiercely to a ridge of horn simply to stay on his feet.

 

It wasn’t easy to master the link between them Jon was new at it, and to complicate matters Drogon was already a fully grown dragon.. but somehow Jon managed it—by the skin of his teeth perhaps, but that was neither here nor there. He did it, and that was all that mattered.

 

It was tempting to get lost in the currents of the bond between them, Jon knew the danger all too well—it would be the easiest thing in the world to forget that they were two creatures and not one and that he was Jon Snow at all. It was a risk with Ghost as well, though comparing warging with Ghost to his link with Drogon was like comparing a candle to a bonfire. Similar, but not alike.

What Jon felt with the black dragon was beautiful, aye, that was true enough…but beautiful was not the only word for it, and once Jon felt steadier on his feet he tentatively allowed himself to explore their link more thoroughly.

Drogon’s affection for Jon was intense —in both depth and ferocity, and Jon had never felt anything like it—and he knew he never would again, which was probably for the best if he were being entirely honest with himself. Clarity came to Jon abruptly as he matched his breathing to Drogon’s and he at last understood why Dragonriders never bonded with a second dragon if their first was lost. 

 

No mortal mind could withstand the strain of making the connection twice. Jon had suffered terribly when Rhaegal died, he’d felt it as deeply as if it had been he himself that had fallen broken from the sky and not the green dragon. The moment the green dragon’s heart had stopped Jon had felt it in his soul. The shattering of the bond between himself and Rhaegal had laid Jon low as surely as if he’d been clubbed in the head or struck by lightning—and he’d had thought it unbearable at the time. 

Jon now understood through Drogon that his bond with Rhaegal had been weak, and that Rhaegal had never truly been HIS dragon. He’d flown on Rhaegal’s back— the was true but the bond between the pair of them had been tenuous and barely formed—and then it had been stretched thin as spider silk by the distance Daenerys had put between the two of them. If Jon and Rhaegal had been more securely bonded when the green dragon died then whatever it was inside of Jon that let him connect with dragons would have been destroyed along with Rhaegal. 

It was a grim thing for Jon to realize that he shouldn’t have survived his first flight with Drogon at all. It had never been done before for a man to ride two dragons—and for the life of him Jon couldn’t understand why HE should be the exception.

 

 

For a moment Jon found himself flailing internally as he did his clumsy best to wrap his human mind around the immensity of what the black dragon was sharing with him. It was difficult, as dragons didn’t think as humans did, feeling to the smaller man as if he were trying to swim against the current of a mighty river just to pick out the simplest thoughts and images. An ordinary man’s mind was never meant to bear such a thing, Jon knew it now without question. He could feel it in his bones, and beating in his heart as it synched up with Drogon’s own and each throbbing beat said one thing, and one thing only.

 

Mine.

 

There was nothing gentle in a dragon’s love, nothing human. The love of a dragon was a hungry thing, possessive in a way that had nothing to do with reason and overpowering in the most fundamental sense of the word. He and Drogon were bound together as surely as if by chains of Valyrian steel. 

 

If someone had asked him to describe it, Jon wasn’t entirely certain that he’d be able even if he wanted. It wasn’t a thing a man could explain in words. It had to be felt to be understood, and Jon found himself thinking back to his first flight with Daenerys, recalling her words as she watched him mount Rhaegal for the first time. No one knows how to ride a dragon until they ride a dragon—-Jon had thought the Dragon Queen’s words a taunt at the time, but now he realized that she had said all she could to help him. There were simply no words for the rest.

 

The bond between himself and the black dragon was beautiful but terrifying; much like Drogon himself. Overwhelming in grand scale. There was no room for distance between them, and no matter where Jon went, or what he did, Jon knee now that Drogon would never let him go. Not for any reason, not even if Jon desired it. Seas would rise and mountains would crumble before the black dragon would suffer to be parted from him. 

 

Only Jon’s own death would shatter the chains of mind and spirit that bound the two of them together.

Jon was no longer his own master, and he never would be again. His life no longer belonged entirely to him. It was shared with his dragon —Drogon would fight by his side, and he would willingly bear Jon wherever it was he needed to go. The black dragon would burn the world to ash if Jon asked it of him....but that devotion had a price, and that price was Jon’s freedom. 

 

*’This is what it means to be a Dragonlord’* 

 

The sudden and unexpected intrusion into his thoughts by a voice that he didn’t know sent Jon reeling and jarred him abruptly from his thoughts as well as the link between himself and Drogon. The whisper had come from nowhere that Jon could see, and yet somehow EVERYWHERE at once and Jon jerked away from Drogon, whirling around to seek its source only to be greeted by nothing at all. 

 

There was nobody there, no matter where Jon looked. The courtyard seemed empty save for he and his dragon. Drogon gave a loud huff of unease as he tensed and cast his scarlet eyes around them in sudden concern, chest rumbling with the beginnings of protective rage in response to Jon’s terror. 

Drogon’s reaction was ominous, because it meant that the dragon was not the source of the strange whisper either. Jon did his best to calm himself, hoping that by extent he would be calming his dragon as well. Jon’s fear would only fan the black dragon’s fury and Jon already knew that Drogon would do anything to protect him…and if that meant meant burning everything around the two of them into ash and glass that was exactly what the dragon would do and if that happened it wouldn’t only be the intruder that would be caught in the flames. 

 

Jon’s fear would madden Drogon, but only if Jon allowed it to do so.

 

The second thought that crossed Jon’s fearful mind as he struggled internally was the creeping dread that perhaps he was going mad, and that at long last his Targaryen blood was sending him the way of his grandfather and so many before him. 

 

Every time a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin.

 

“Who’s there?” Jon finally asked, his voice cracking slightly. 

 

Only silence greeted him, the courtyard no less empty than it had been moments before. “Show yourself!” Jon demanded, voice rising in volume and steadying into something closer to command.

Drogon shifted uneasily behind him, wings lifting in mute threat at a danger that the dragon could not see —-but that through Jon he could most certainly feel—the spines of his long tail rattling in warning as the dragon tried to herd Jon closer to his larger body, urging the smaller man onto his back where the dragon could protect him more easily. 

 

Jon gave in to Drogon’s demand without hesitation, climbing hurriedly up onto his broad back, feeling immediately better about the situation once he had. Few things could harm Jon from his position atop Drogon and well he knew it—any arrows or spears that came his way would be caught by Drogon’s snapping teeth or fiery breath before they could ever reach him and the hard scales of the dragon’s underbelly would prevent any threat from the ground from harming Jon before Drogon could crush them with either claw or tail. 

 

The safest place in all the world was on a dragon’s back. 

 

“If I wanted you dead Aegon Targaryen, you would be,” said that same voice, and this time it was no whisper, it was a true voice that Jon heard now, spoken as clearly as any other and that voice at last had a source. From the shadows beneath the long stairs stepped a man that Jon had never seen before, a man who Jon knew with certainty had not been standing there only a moment before. Nobody had come in or out since Jon had joined Drogon in the snow, and yet the man was standing there regardless. 

 

Jon had never seen anything like him in all his life, he was so jarringly alien that he almost didn’t seem real at all. The stranger was tall—taller than Jon himself was by nearly a head and a half, perhaps even taller than The Hound had been; wearing robes of heavy scarlet brocade that dragged the snowy ground as he walked towards the two of them— seemingly entirely untroubled by both Drogon’s threatening growl of warning and the bitter winter chill in the air around the three of them.

 

The intruder stopped a few lengths away from them, and Jon could at last make out the stranger’s face in the moonlight. It was long and sharply made, with high cheekbones and thin unsmiling lips that seemed to have a naturally sly tilt to them—as if he knew something Jon didn’t and found Jon’s confusion amusing beyond bearing. His hair was straight as a pin and hung down to his hips—and that long, strikingly scarlet hair was an unnatural sort of red that Jon had only ever seen on one other person—the Lady Melisandre of Asshai. 

 

“What brings a Red Priest so far North?” Jon called down to the man as he tightened his grip on Drogon’s spines, mastering his own unease and swallowing his pride in case the pair of them needed to make a swift escape. They could not fight here in the courtyard, and for all that it was only one man standing there in the snow—-the lady Melisandre had possessed great power when she chose to use it and Jon was of no mind to tempt fate by confronting a sorcerer in an enclosed space.

 

“What brings a dragon to the end of the world?” the stranger retorted calmly, arching a ruddy brow at Jon ever so slightly in amusement. Jon had never liked Lady Melisandre’s winding, oblique taunts and mysterious airs and he found that he liked them even less from a man he did not owe his life to.

 

Jon had never instantaneously disliked a man before, not even Alliser Thorne but it seemed that there was a first time for everything because something about the stranger made Jon uneasy, and no matter how hard he tried he just couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was. It put his hackles up, though and made Jon’s nerves jangle in warning and that was all the confirmation Jon needed to be wary.

 

“You’re in my castle uninvited and unannounced, Ser—-I think I’ll be the one asking the questions here.” Jon replied, and as if in agreement, Drogon let out another warning growl and rattled his spines louder. Jon felt the vibration of it throughout his whole body, and it made his teeth ache. 

 

The stranger only smiled that infuriatingly enigmatic smile again and tilted his head slightly in acknowledgment—however it wasn’t acknowledgment that Jon wanted from the man, it was answers to his questions —and he meant to have them —one way or another, in very short order.

 

“I won’t ask again, who are you and what are you doing at Castle Black?” Jon’s voice brooked no argument, now, there was resolve on his face and rage glittering in his dragon’s eyes and Drogon’s next rumbling growl brought smoke with it, spilling out of the dragon’s mouth through his bared teeth like an ominous creeping fog.

 

The man was silent a moment longer before at last speaking, and his deep, rich voice was as smooth as velvet and without so much as hint of stress. 

 

“You may call me Arli—if you like. It’s as good a name as any other, and as for what I’m doing here—that you already know. You’ve a duty ahead of you, Azor Ahai, for the night is dark and full of terrors and you cannot face them alone.” the smugness in the red haired man's tone raised Jon's hackles and at long last he reached the end of his patience with the Red Priest and his cryptic statements both.

 

“I’m not alone.” Jon replied as Drogon’s rumbling, vicious growl filled the air of the courtyard with barely restrained menace.A small, coldly confident smile blooming on his normally too-solemn face. 

 

“I’ll never be alone again.


	16. Jon

The priest stood calmly, seemingly utterly unmoved by Jon’s words and if the placid, nearly condescending expression on the man’s face was any indication he still somehow believed that he was the one in control of the situation. It put Jon in mind of Alliser Thorne. He’d been arrogant too, and Jon’s tolerance for the man’s disrespect had ended up costing him his life. It wouldn’t be happening again. Not now, not ever. That meant that this time he was going to have to nip it in the bud before it could become a problem.

 

Drogon’s presence in Jon’s mind seemed to swell in response to his train of thought and the dragon began rattling the long spiked webbing on his tail and spine in warning. That—wasn’t exactly what Jon had intended as a response but it certainly seemed to do the trick. The dragon’s wordless warning accomplished what Jon alone couldn't.

 

Something flickered across the Red Priest’s face—a phantom emotion Jon couldn’t quite put a name to before it was gone again and that same insufferably placid mask settled once more over the priest’s sharp features. Jon didn’t mind the priest putting his mask back on now—because he knew what lay behind it. 

 

The man didn’t answer him, but he did incline his head regally in acknowledgment. It would do, for now at least. 

Jon nearly ruined it however when Drogon shifted uneasily beneath him, the roll and glide of the dragon’s powerful muscles forcing Jon to abruptly alter his own center of balance and curl his fists around two of the dragon’s thick neck spikes in order to stay secure on the black dragon’s back as it lowered its massive head to get a closer look at their uninvited guest. 

Jon had to give the Red Priest credit where credit was due— the tall man stood fast, resolutely unmoving in the face of the dragon’s curiosity when that massive head came within arms length of him—close enough for the priest to feel the heat within and smell the bitter, acidic tang of the dragon’s breath. 

 

From atop Drogon’s back Jon watched the priest’s expression shift like quicksilver from terror to wonder and then swiftly back to terror again as Drogon’s scalding hot breath hissed out in an ominous rush. 

 

Drogon growled lowly and then hauled in a huge lung-full of air and the other man’s scent, letting it out again a moment later in a steaming hot gust, making the priest’s narrow, wide eyed face redden from the heat.

 

Jon well recalled the first time he’d been so close to Drogon. He’d seen many things in his life— white walkers and wargs, magic and the undead. Things he’d once believed to be nursery tales and nothing more. None of it could ever have prepared Jon for what he’d felt the first time he’d seen Drogon up close. He’d heard about dragons all his life, of course. You couldn’t know history and not know of dragons. Dragons—and the people who’d ridden them.

 

The great Dragonlords of Old Valyria

 

Men and women who’d conquered the world with the power their dragons gave them—only to lose it all in the Doom when the fire they’d once commanded turned on them in apocalyptic fury and in a single day brought their entire civilization to wrack and ruin—-leaving only cold ash and fading memory behind and a yawning void in the world where they had once been. A void that would be felt for another ten thousand years.

 

The Targaryens were the last remnant of that bloodline, and now by his own hand Jon was all that remained of that House. He was only living scion of the blood of the Dragonlords, the very last to carry it forward into the future. Jon could never have known what all of it meant until he saw a dragon. Until he’d into those keen, unfathomably alien eyes for himself and found the other half of himself in their depths. 

Jon remembered that moment on the cliff. How he’d frozen in place, staring in mute terror at the dragon charging down on him like a nightmare given shape and form and fire. Drogon had looked for all the world as if he’d meant to eat Jon whole at the time and animal panic had robbed Jon of both his wits and his voice entirely.

 

Fortunately for him, it had only been a test of his nerve and perhaps a bit of a lark on Drogon’s behalf—but Jon hadn’t known that at the time. How could he have? 

In the moment, Drogon had been both terrible and wondrous and when the black dragon had eventually lowered his massive head to him Jon hadn’t been able to contain his awe—or his own desperate need to reach out and put his hand on those shining black scales. 

 

Jon hadn’t had clue where that mindless, overpowering urge to touch Drogon had come from at at the time, all that had mattered to him was getting his hands on that rough hide and looking up into those scarlet eyes. It felt like madness. 

 

It still did, in a way.

 

Jon could no more have stopped himself from reaching out to Drogon than he could have flown off that cliff without wings of his own. He knew the why of it all now, of course. Like called to like, and the dragon sleeping inside of Jon’s had been clear to Drogon from the moment their eyes had met and the dragon smelled the truth hidden in his blood. 

The Red Priest was keen of wit enough not to risk reaching out to Drogon. That is, if the man even felt a similar urge himself. It was all for the best, because Jon knew without question that if the priest dared to even attempt such a thing Drogon would bite whatever hand the man dared touch him with off as a lesson in respect. 

 

Jon didn’t know everything abut dragons, not by half—but there were a few things he *did* know and they were absolute. Foremost among them was the fact that when it came to interacting with dragons, a man must walk a fine line between strength and terror if he wanted to survive the experience. To err too far in either direction spelled death for the unlucky fool who made the error.

 

Being overbold was bad—but cowardice was worse. If the priest allowed himself to give in to the animal need to panic in the face of a predator the outcome would like as not be death instead of a warning. Dragons would never respect a coward, there was no mercy in them for weakness of that sort. None at all. 

 

The smell of fear was a powerfully appealing scent for a dragon, Jon knew it all too well now that he carried Drogon’s constant presence in his mind If the priest lost his nerve, Drogon would eat him on the spot and Jon wasn’t entirely certain that he could stop him, even if he wanted to. 

After a long, tense moment the black dragon’s growls slowly faded away, at last having assured himself to his own satisfaction that the priest wasn’t an immediate threat to either himself or his rider. 

 

The decision was made then, it seemed. Jon decided that he would trust the dragon’s judgment and that meant that their uninvited guest would live—for now.

 

_They could always eat him later, after all._ The hair on the back of Jon’s neck suddenly rose, and ice trickled down his spine as he realized that the thought he’d just had was not entirely his own. The line between Man and Dragon was growing ever more blurred for the two of them—-he and Drogon were bleeding into one another and Jon wasn’t entirely certain how to nurture the bond between the two of them without losing himself in the process. 

Jon forced himself to push his growing unease out of his mind and focus on the task at hand, and after a moment Drogon’s presence inside him seemed to dim into something manageable, Jon didn’t delude himself however—it was no strength of his that was responsible. It was only Drogon’s mercy that made Jon’s mind entirely his own again. 

 

The knowledge brought with it an ominous sense of dread; because Jon knew all too well that a dragon’s mercy was nothing a wise man could depend upon for long. 

 

“Well—-looks like Drogon isn’t of a mind to eat you. “ Jon said, after recovering his own poise—he prayed that the priest didn’t notice his lapse. .

Seeing the relief on the red priest’s narrow face at his words Jon suddenly found himself moved by an imp of the perverse to add a quiet, “—Yet.” to his statement just to see that relief melt away again like spring snow. Jon would have liked to blame Drogon for his petty and unnecessary jab at the priest’s pride—but in truth it was entirely his own irritation that moved him to action.

 

Well, no man alive was perfect—-least of all him.

 

“ So it would appear, the Lord of Light is infinite in his mercy and as his servant I—” The priest responded after finding his wayward tongue—and dignity— again. His tone was as bland as milk and he tucked his delicate looking hands into his long, trailing sleeves neatly. Jon envied the other man that seemingly effortless poise more than he wanted to admit. Even to himself. 

 

The man moved with such carefully measured grace that Jon found himself wondering if the priest was hiding his hands away to conceal the fact that they were shaking. Jon pushed the though away, irritated at his own distraction.

It didn’t matter, and now wasn’t the time. There were far more important issues to be addressed— and none of them would be served by his idle curiosity. 

 

Unfortunately for the priest, while Jon was running out of patience for himself he was also rapidly running out of patience with his uninvited guest. It was high time for Jon to make that as clear to the other man as possible. 

“The Lord of Light isn’t the one whose mercy you need to be concerned with at the moment—“ Jon replied coldly, cutting the other man off abruptly. 

 

He could see the the man flinch at his words in the moonlight— as if Jon had cut him with a blade instead of a sharp tongue. Better. Much better, in fact.

 

“You’re in my castle, priest. “ Jon said coldly. 

 

“ You come here in the night, unannounced and uninvited and I don’t know how things are done wherever it is that you come from—‘ as he spoke Jon waved a hand at the walls of ice and timber surrounding them. 

“—but here in the North that isn’t a thing taken lightly even in the best of times” 

 

Jon narrowed his eyes, watching in quiet satisfaction as open unease bloomed like a blighted rose across the Priest’s sharp, fox-like face. “ —and this is most certainly NOT the best of times. ”

Even to his own ears Jon’s tone was cold as a winter wind, and he watched in satisfaction as the color slowly drained from the red priest’s pale cheeks, leaving the other man pallid and sick looking in the moonlight.

 

The uneasy flicker of the other man’s throat as he swallowed told Jon that his words had served their purpose. Jon had rattled the priest considerably and that knowledge perversely served to make him more inclined to listen to whatever it was that the man had come so far to say. 

 

Jon might not like that the man was there, and he most certainly wasn’t overfond of magic—saving his life not withstanding but he would listen. For now, at least. 

 

The rest would come after.

 

The priest seemed to sense his shift in mood, because the man hurriedly began to speak—words rushing out of him like a river, tumbling over one another in the other man’s blind haste to get them out before he annoyed Jon, and by extension Drogon any more than he already had. 

 

Jon did his best to smother a smile as he watched the priest puffing himself up like a winter grouse to make whatever case it was that he had come to present. 

 

“I come from the shadowlands beyond Asshai, my King—where your dragon was bred and his egg hidden away for safekeeping until it could be given to the Mother of Dragons, that dragons might once more exist in the world and fill the sky with their songs and the holy light of the One True God.“ 

Lovely, this again. It took everything inside of Jon not to roll his eyes. Why was it that everyone’s gods were always the one true gods? The old and the new, the Lord of Light. Jon was heartily sick of proselytizing from all corners. 

Drogon however was listening raptly to the priest’s words. Jon felt the shift in the dragon’s focus keenly—he could feel the dragon’s curiosity rising up inside of him like a sleepy kraken from a sea bed as clearly as if it were his own.

 

For the moment the Red Priest had both of their attention and so Jon chose to remain silent, allowing the man to keep talking. He was a proud man, this priest— and Jon knew his type all too well. He’d watched Lord Stark deal with men of his sort before and Jon knew that if he were silent, Arli would be compelled by his own nature to fill that silence with the sound of his own voice rather than abide the quiet. The result being that he was likely to say more than he initially intended. 

 

“I have come a very long way to serve you, Aegon Targaryen—a very long way indeed, and there is much that I must tell you. You must be prepared for what is to come.” Jon listened to the man’s increasingly flowery speech—barely refraining from rolling his eyes. By the gods, the man was pompous. Jon had never thought he’d say it, not even to himself — but he was beginning to miss Lady Melisandre. 

The priest continued on, oblivious. “—The Lord of Light has told me that the battle for the dawn is not over yet, your majesty. Far from over, the great truth that he has revealed to me is that it is only just beginning. The Mother of Dragons was your Nissa Nissa, your majesty. Her death was foretold and your great dragon is the Lightbringer bought with her Holy Sacrifice. The last hope of light to drive back the dark hunger of the Great Other and return him to the void from which he was spawned.”

 

The fervent light of the zealot burned in the red priest’s amber eyes like a bonfire, and in their depths Jon could almost see the flames of the god he served. True or not, the man believed that he was right. No, not right. 

Righteous.

 

The knowledge brought with it only dread. There was nothing in the world more dangerous than a righteous man and Jon had seen the undeniable proof of it in Stannis Baratheon. Rage kindled inside him when the priest dared to mention Daenerys, rage and guilt and as always the crushing weight of his own grief. 

 

Daenerys might have forgiven him for what he’d done to her, but seas would run dry and mountains would blow in the wind like leaves before Jon could ever forgive himself. 

 

“ Don’t—“ the word was out before he could call it back, rasping and harsh and once it had broken free Jon found himself helpless to hold back the rest.

 

“—do not speak of her to me, Priest. Not here, not now.” his voice cracked and Jon grit his teeth hard enough to turn dirt to diamond before finishing.

“Not ever,” 

 

Jon's voice was ragged as he spit out the last two words like poison, his throat aching with tears he refused to let himself shed. He did not deserve them and even if he did this priest had no right to witness his suffering. Jon had done what had to be done for the greater good. He had given all he had, all he was and all he loved on the alter of duty—but he would not give this. His grief was his alone, the rest of the world had no right to it.

 

Somehow the priest knew anyway, Jon could see it in his eyes. There was only silence between them for long moments as Jon mastered his own emotions with the ruthless efficiency he’d learned from being the Bastard of Winterfell and when he spoke again his voice was calm and even. 

 

“You’re late with your news, Priest. I’m aware that the war is far from over. The thing sitting in King’s Landing and calling itself King is not my brother. It’s a thief, and I mean to see it destroyed one way or another—but first we must find out how the thing is done, because once it realizes that WE are aware of what it is, it will begin to move against us and its eyes are everywhere. “

 

“Not everywhere, your majesty—,” the priest said, a faint smile curving his thin lips though it did not reach his eyes.

 

 

“—not in Old Valyria.”


	17. Wilmot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story is picking up now folks, strap in because it's about to be a bumpy ride. As always, comments are love and feed the beast. You've all been amazing so far and I'm seriously honored that y'all are having fun on this journey with me. <3

Wilmot sits frozen in place, staring blankly across the dark ironwood desk at the Lord Commander’s solemn face and he can’t help but wonder what it was he’d done to deserve the life the gods had seen fit to inflict on him. 

 

“With all due respect, Lord Commander—you’re out of your fucking mind,” he says bluntly when he finds his tongue again.

 

The words are out before Wilmot realizes that he intended to say them at all, and he goes cold all over once they leave his lips. If Jon Snow were any other man, he’d have Wilmot flogged for insubordination—Wilmot knows it without a moment’s doubt. 

 

Even the Old Bear wouldn’t have borne it, and he’d been one of the finest Commanders Wilmot had ever served under—but Lord Commander Snow isn Jeor Mormont, so he only stares at Wilmot with those dark eyes of his, radiating disappointment and weary resignation at both Wilmot’s crude wording and lack of support for his plan. 

 

It made something inside Wilmot’s guts shrivel up and twist in on itself to be the one to put that expression on the dark haired man’s sad-eyed face, and the old man couldn’t help but drop his own eyes in response. Yanking his battered fur hat off roughly, he starts to twist it nervously in his gnarled, age dappled hands. To his own surprise Wilmot finds himself murmuring a soft, sincere apology after a long moment of awkward silence. 

 

“Sorry, Lord Commander,” he mutters, avoiding the Lord Commander’s eyes as he speaks Apologies don’t come easily to Wilmot’s lips, they never had—-which was like as not why he’d never risen far in the ranks of the Watch. He never could keep his bloody mouth shut.

 

The Old Bear would have had Wilmot flogged,—but it’s Lord Commander Snow who makes him want to be a better man than he is and Wilmot would do almost anything to never see that mournful look of disappointment on the young Lord Commander’s face again. 

 

“ I did ask for honesty—“ the Lord commander replied, mouth twisting into a rueful half smile “I can’t cry foul when it’s given.” 

_Oh, Seven bloody buggering hells’_ ’he thinks to himself before speaking again, voice gruff with shame even Wilmot himself can hear.

“Aye, but I could’ve found a better way to say it. Ye took me by surprise is all,” Wilmot answers after heaving a long sigh and meeting the younger man’s gaze once more. 

 

The Lord Commander wasn’t truly angry with him, Wilmot knew it right away—but he’d never seen a man so young look so tired. Jon Snow was a man at the end of his strength and it made Wilmot’s heart ache to see it and know that he’d contributed to that exhaustion. 

 

It wasn’t a tiredness of the body that weighed the younger man down however; that would’ve been easy enough to remedy. Give a man a little more sleep, maybe some extra food and a bit of peace and it’d set that sort of exhaustion right as rain in short order. No, the haggard look in the Lord Comanders eyes was a weariness of the soul and Wilmot knew that all the sleep and meat pies in the world wouldn’t chase it from Jon Snow’s sad, dark eyes or lift the burdens the other man carried on his shoulders.

 

It was strange to pity a man like the Lord Commander, but pity him Wilmot most certainly did. If this was the price of command then Wilmot was grateful that he’d never known its burdens. 

 

“ It’s not every day your Lord Commander asks you to hold the castle while he goes to the edge of the world to search for the impossible,“ the younger man acknowledged ruefully in return.

 

Wilmot could see that the Lord Commander was trying to smile, but Snow had never been a man for whom pretense came easily, and so his efforts fell far short of the mark. Lord Commander Snow was honest in a way that Wilmot had never known any other man to be, and one of the consequences of that honesty was that he couldn’t lie for pig shite, so while the curve of his lips was real enough— it didn’t reach the younger man’s eyes and it was the eyes that mattered when it came to Jon Snow.

 

Everything was in his eyes if you knew where to look.

Some men were easy to read, but Jon Snow wasn’t one of them. He was a quiet man, their Lord Commander, and not just with his words. Everything about him was subdued, most especially when it came to his own heart. 

 

Jon Snow was a man who did most of his living on the inside. He was more likely to smile where another man would laugh or crinkle the corners of his eyes rather than grin. Their Lord Commander kept his heart closely guarded unless you had his his trust, but once you did you got to see the man beneath the stillness he carried with him like a winter cloak.

 

It was that man that Wilmot had come to respect so deeply.

 

“You know I trust ye, M’lord—” Wilmot said, his own ferocity taking him by surprise. 

 

“—and you have to know by now that any man here would walk through fire if you only asked it of him.” 

 

Wilmot shook his head and sighed. “ You may wear the black of the Watch but you’re still our King, Jon Snow —and you always will be, crown on your head or no,” as he spoke Wilmot could see genuine surprise creeping over the Lord Commander’s face like a sunrise.

 

“ We believe in you, Lord Commander. _I_ believe in you—but what’ll happen to us all if we lose you?” 

 

This was source of the fear that’d made Wilmot’s blood run cold when the Lord Commander had told him what he meant to do. It was a mad plan, only growing madder the longer the younger man had spent explaining it to him. 

 

Wilmot had listened in horror as the Lord Commander informed him that he meant to ride his dragon across the sea to Old Valyria in an effort to search out some way to either dislodge the Night King from his brother’s body and return it to it’s rightful owner or, failing that — destroy the creature entirely once and for all. 

 

Just hearing that their fight wasn’t over had been shock enough for Wilmot. The stuff of nightmares—but now the Lord Commander meant to travel to a place where no man had ever gone and returned whole from since the day of the Doom. To go to what remained of Old Valyria was death, and the whole world knew it. All except Jon Snow, it seemed. 

 

Wilmot was afraid. That was the plain truth of it, he was afraid because the Lord Commander was all they had, the only light in the dark that wanted to rise up and slaughter them all and if Jon Snow left for Valyria and didn’t return what would any of them do without him? 

How would they ever be able to face what was coming without Jon Snow lead them?

 

Jon Snow was all they had.

 

“You’ll go on, Will—” the younger man said gently, interrupting Wilmot’s spiral of panic.

 

“—you and everybody else will go on, you’ll keep fighting for what’s right. You’ll keep fighting for life, for hope. Hope for all of us. Hope that the dawn will come after the Long Night and that this isn’t the end for the world of the living. If I die, that only means that my part in the story is over—not that it’s the end of the story itself.” 

 

The Lord Commander’s words strike at Wilmot’s heart like a hammer strikes a bell and as he looks into Jon Snow’s dark eyes he finds that somehow, impossibly, he can almost believe him. He nearly believes that he could be the man the Lord Commander thinks he is—but the doubt is louder than Wilmot’s hope, and it strangles the strength of that fragile faith like black briar blighting a tree.

 

“How can ye be so sure?” Wilmot rasps, and he can hear the way his voice breaks on the words, and he isn’t sure what he expects the Lord Commander to say—but it isn’t what comes out of his mouth next. 

 

“Because I believe in you, Will—” Jon Snow says gently, and in that single moment Wilmot feels his heart shatter into a thousand pieces. 

 

“— I believe in all of you. I always have and I always will.” Jon Snow’s words echo inside of Wilmot, they fill him up like an empty cup with something he’s never felt before, something that he didn’t even know he _could_ feel. 

 

Jon Snow believes in him. He believes in an old man in the winter of his life, puts his faith in a thief and a murderer. 

 

Wilmot had been barely 20 years old when he’d cut a man’s throat in a dark alley in Maidenpool for the five pieces of silver in his pocket. He would have danced the hangman’s jig for the crime, too—but instead he’d chosen to join the Watch to save his own skin. Back then, he’d thought it better to freeze his bollocks off at the wall for the rest of his days than spend his last moments dangling from the hangman rope, shitting himself for all to see as he died. 

 

He didn’t join the watch for honor, as Commander Snow had, only to save himself from the consequences of what he’d done.

 

Now Jon Snow sits there behind that desk, dark eyes shining as bright as the dawn with faith and trust and he says that he believes in him. Wilmot can’t doubt him, can’t question him, Jon Snow couldn’t lie to save his own life and the truth is right there in his eyes for all to see. 

 

Jon Snow believes in Wilmot Redrun, and for the first time in all his life Wilmot finds that he believes in himself and his next words are the easiest that have ever left his lips. 

 

“Tell me what you need, Lord Commander.” 

 

Jon Snow smiles, and this time it reaches his eyes.


	18. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old secrets and new plans.

Three men sit in the gloom of Jon’s office, four if he counted himself. Tormund sat closest to the fire, arms crossed over his broad chest and his long legs stretched out in front of him to soak in its heat. The wildling looked relaxed—but Jon knew better. He saw the way his friend’s eyes lingered on Arli, never quite settling and always aware. 

 

The red priest and Wilmot sat closest to his desk, Wilmot having fetched an extra chair for Arli, who had settled himself into it with the sort of smug satisfaction that Jon had previously assumed belonged only to cats and royalty. Wilmot sat stiffly, awkward amongst the three of them as if unsure of the legitimacy of his place amongst them. Jon could see by the tightness of his mouth in the firelight that the older man’s joints we're likely paining him as well. 

 

None of them seem to be in any hurry to offer up their opinions on the matter at hand though—not even the red priest. The same man that Jon had not so long ago worried would never shut up. He was quiet now, of course. 

 

Quiet as the grave when silence was the last thing Jon had need of Jon wasn't even surprised by it anymore. Priests were as contrary as cats and twice as proud and Jon found himself on the verge of giving in and speaking up first simply to dissipate the oppressive tension that filled the room around them--growing stronger with every moment of silence that passed.

Thankfully it ended up being unnecessary, because Tormund chose that moment to speak up at last; saving Jon the trouble and finally breaking the awkward silence that had choked the room with a rude snort. 

The wildling man shook his shaggy his head as if to clear it and shot Jon an incredulous look that clearly said how he felt about Jon’s plan. 

 

“You know this hare-brained idea of yours is mad, don’t you?” the red haired man said; a crooked grin curving his lips, visible even beneath his bushy ginger beard. 

 

“Aye.” Jon said simply in return. What else COULD he say? Tormund wasn't entirely wrong.

 

”I suppose all the time I spent with you finally rubbed off on me, ” Jon replied,   
a faint smile of his own stealing across his face as his weak attempt at a jest forced a rough bark of surprised laughter out of Tormund. 

” The world must really be ending, King Crow finally cracked a joke.” Tormund shot back dryly.

”I’m not that bad!” 

 

”Tell that take to a man who doesn't know you, you mad bastard.” Tormund shot back.

 

The wildling was right; Jon couldn’t deny it, not in good conscience. Jon’s plan _was_ mad, and he had the terrible suspicion that there was no possible way that it could work outside of divine intervention--and considering the situation they were currently in Jon wasn’t going to hold his breath waiting for assistance from the gods. 

 

Old, new or otherwise. 

 

It was the only plan they had however; and that meant that they were stuck with it for good or ill unless someone could think of a better option. 

 

The priest seemed to take immediate offense to both Tormund’s statement and Jon’s acknowledgement of it, shooting the both of them a poisonous glare that put Jon once more in mind of an affronted cat. 

“It is **not** mad—“ Arli hissed at the two of them angrily, rising abruptly to his feet in a whirl of heavy scarlet brocade robes. 

 

“ —it is the plan the Lord of Light has revealed to me and that means that it will see us through!” 

 

“Enough, Arli,” Jon said; in a last ditch effort to cut off other man’s brewing tirade before it could gain momentum. The tone of his voice saying plainly to everyone in the room that he was nearing the end of his ability to tolerate the red priest’s theatrics. 

Even Arli seemed to realize his mistake, because the priest immediately deflated. Going from mortally offended to somewhat chastened with remarkable speed. His next words were far more cautious.

 

“It must succeed, your majesty—“ the priest said fervently, looking at each of the men in turn before settling on Jon; something desperately plaintive in his amber eyes. 

 

“—this is the only path that I have seen that leads us to victory.” he said urgently. 

 

“ All others are past taking now or the chance of their success is so far remote that they simply aren’t worth considering at all. This is all we have, and although the way forward is perilous… it is the path that we must take, else all is lost. “ 

 

“You’re so bloody sure of yourself, how do you KNOW for certain?” Wilmot interjected, the scorn in his gruff voice plain for all to hear. 

 

Wilmot had never had much faith in the gods as far as Jon knew. As far as he was concerned either they didn’t exist, or they were cunts and the plain truth of it was that the old man no time and even less patience for either.

 

“The Red Witch was sure too—“ Wilmot added bitterly. 

 

“—she was sure that Stannis Baratheon was some foretold savior too-- and look where it got him!” Wilmot snarled. 

 

“ She was sure then, and so was he. So sure he burnt his own child alive to chase the power the red witch told him was his by right and prophecy. Where is he now, eh?” Wilmot demanded, looking from one face to another and waving one arm wildly at the room around them.

 

“ —I’ll tell ye where he is, you great prancing nonce--“ Wilmot sneered at a stunned looking Arli. 

 

“--He’s **dead** , that’s where, and he and his men died alone in the snow while _her ladyship_ rode off into the sunset on a fast horse without a care in the world. We could've used those swords those at Winterfell--but they died for nothing but a woman's fancies instead!“

 

The red priest’s face grew redder by the moment as Wilmot spoke; and Jon wondered in morbid curiosity if it was in embarrassment or fury--though from the look on the priest’s face Jon suspected he wouldn't have wait long for his answer. 

 

The old man kept going--voice rising in volume as he ranted.

 

“ —Then, as if that wasn’t bloody well enough she sent five thousand men charging into the dark to meet the dead—every last one of us full of hope with burning swords in our hands and hope in our hearts. That hope was worth fuck-all because the dead swallowed us up and crushed us like wee bugs under a bloody boot!” 

 

That was a step too far for Arli, it seemed. Wilmot’s words had struck home, and suddenly the room around the four of them felt terrifyingly small.

 

“I am not Melisandre of Asshai.” the red priest replied coldly, when Wilmot had to.pause to take a breath. The fire in his amber eyes seemed to burn a fraction brighter than it had only a moment before and glittered dangerously in the gloom as Arli stared the older man down; the fire in the hearth matched his rage, swelling brighter and burning hotter in response to the priest’s barely leashed fury. 

When Arli spoke again his voice was still like warm honey, but there was no softness in it now. 

 

None at all. 

 

“ Lady Melisandre was a loyal servant of the Lord of Light. “ the priest said, golden eyes fixed on the old man as if he meant to flay him with his gaze alone. 

 

“ She was one of the most devoted of the faithful. Loyal and true to the vows she swore the day she came.to.serve at the temple. The strength of her faith granted her a measure of power, power she used well and as wisely as she could --but I tell you now that the truth of the matter is that it was a power she did not entirely understand and could only barely make use of after long year's of study.” 

 

“Comparing the two of us is like comparing candle-light with the fire of the summer sun.” 

 

The priest held Wilmot’s gaze as he spoke, and the old man couldn’t have looked away from those golden eyes if his life depended on it. None of them could. Not even Jon himself, where he sat grown in his.seat behind his desk which sent a spike of terror singing through his body.

 

Arli kept speaking, and all any of them could do was listen to what he had to say. 

 

“Lady Melsandre served her purpose, and she did so with unwavering faith and more honor and dignity than you will ever know in your miserable and ultimately brief existence.” Arli’s voice was pure venom, the priest no longer even attempting civility.

 

“She gave herself freely and without complaint. Without even a moment’s hesitation. You know NOTHING, of her worth. Nothing at all. You would shatter like glass beneath the weight of the burden she carried.” 

 

“Melisandre of Asshai was sent to the ends of the earth to die alone and unmourned in a strange land, far from those who loved her and separated from all who truly knew her and yet never once did she complain about what was asked of her. Never in her heart of hearts did she doubt her purpose or the greater good she served.” 

 

“Melisandre of Asshai rests now in glory your tiny mortal mind cannot fathom and if another breath of insult to her or her service passes your withered lips it will be the last that ever leave them and I promise you here and now that the terrors of the Long Night will pale in comparison to what awaits you next world.”

 

The priest might have said more, but Jon had finally broken free of his own involuntary stupor. 

”Enough!” he snarled angrily at the two men, standing from his chair abruptly with a squeal of wood on stone. 

 

”Are the two of you children?” he said, looking from one man to the other. 

 

”There's no time for this petty bickering anymore! ” 

 

” Your majesty, I--” Arli began. 

 

”Shut. Up. ” Jon ground out from between clenched teeth, his tone making the priest pale noticeably. 

 

”This ends now. We have to work together, all of us. I don't care if you hate each other, I don't care about your hurt feelings or your old grudges.”

 

”The only thing I care about now is doing what has to be done to protect the people of this world from what’s coming, and anything that gets in the way of that goal is unacceptable.”

 

Tormund is watching from his position by the fire, Jon can feel his eyes on him like a physical touch. The wildling man had never seen Jon truly angry before, frantic perhaps. Urgent and firm---but never genuinely furious. There was a first time for everything, it seemed. 

 

“The two of you are going to get along.” He growled .

 

“You’re going to respect one another and you’re going to work together or I swear by the Old Gods and the New that I will pitch the pair of you head first off the top of the Wall personally!” Jon’s voice was a shout by the time he finished speaking, and both Arli and Wilmot were staring at him wide eyed in shock. 

 

In the distance, Drogon screamed his own answer to the rage that had filtered its way down the link between himself and Jon and the ominous sound of it sent chills down the backs of all three men. 

 

“ Have I made myself clear?” Jon asked after a moment, his voice deceptively calm. 

 

“ Yes, Your Majesty.”

 

“Yes, Lord Commander.”

 

“ Aye.” 

 

Taking in a slow breath to regain control of himself and by extension calm his dragon, Jon held it for a moment before letting it out again in a quiet sigh before taking his seat once more. 

 

“Tormund, Arli and I are going to Old Valyria. Wilmot, you’ll stay here to hold Castle Black—you’re the only man I know of left that has any hope of keeping order here. In three days time I’ll send Drogon off ahead of us and myself, Tormund, Arli and a small company of the free folk will ride out North of the Wall on horseback for everyone to see—“ Jon looked intently at Tormund, doing his level best to make the urgency of the situation and the importance of the wildling’s role in their plan clear.

 

“Tormund, I’m going to need you to pick the most loyal men and women you can find to go out with us—and you’ll have to tell them that they can’t come back south for what may be a very long time. Can you do that?”

 

Tormund snorted in response, “ Of course I can, but they’ll need supplies, “ he replied bluntly. 

 

“There’ll be no game to hunt out there for a good while—-not until the land recovers from the passage of the Dead. They killed animals as well as people, there’s nothing left for us—it’ll be lean times for the free folk north of the wall for years to come. 

 

Jon nodded, “ They’ll have them. As much as they can carry, maybe more if I can manage it.”

 

Then Jon turned his gaze to Wilmot, who straightened himself in his chair. 

 

“ Will, you’re going to tell anybody who asks that I’ve gone ranging to see what sort of condition the lands beyond the Wall are in now that the war is ‘over’” Wilmot nodded, the first hints of understanding dawning in his faded blue eyes.

 

Jon looked away from him, eyes flicking between the three men before he continued.

 

“We have to be seen leaving and heading North.” 

 

“ As far as I know, the Thief can’t see what we’re doing if we’re close enough to Drogon. Something about the magic in dragons makes it difficult for him to look past them. It’s not foolproof—but it doesn’t need to be.” 

 

“ The moment Drogon leaves he’ll be able to see us again—and I need him to see us go. The men need to see us leaving and going North—not East. None of them can know the truth of where we’re going. The Thief will be watching and listening to everything they say and do; one slip will be the end of our ruse and when that happens he’ll start preparing to move against us.”

 

“ We have to keep that from happening for as long as we possibly can.” Jon explained, the urgency in his voice making the importance of the task he was setting for Wilmot clear.

 

“We have to buy ourselves time to figure out our own plan of attack. It won’t last forever, unfortunately. Eventually the Thief WILL realize he’s been duped—but if our plan works then by the time that happens we’ll hopefully have all the answers we need. “

 

“ Tormund, Arli and I will split off from the main group North of the Wall and meet Drogon at the ruins of Hardhome. From there, the four of us will fly East, toward Old Valyria. Drogon’s magic will conceal our departure and where we’re traveling and once we arrive in Valyria the magic there will conceal our presence as we search.” 

 

“I don’t know what we’ll find when we get there.” Jon said quietly, trying to impress upon them all the danger they would be going into. 

 

“Nobody does. It’s entirely possible none of us will make it back alive—but that’s a risk we have to take.” 

Jon opened the drawer of his desk and carefully extracted the ancient map he’d hidden there beforehand, spreading it out carefully on the desk for everyone to see. 

 

“I found this in the archives,” he said quietly, touching the faded vellum reverently. 

 

“—it’s a map of Valyria before the Doom destroyed it; and this-“ Jon said, pointing to a large building near the center of the capital city. 

 

“ This is the Grand Library Of Syrax, it was connected to their school of magic and if there’s anywhere in the world where the answers we seek will be, it’s there.” 

 

This time it was Tormund who spoke, ginger brows drawn together in concern. “ If it’s been all this time how do we even know if it’s still there? It could be a pile rubble for all we know,” he pointed out. 

 

Jon shook his head. “ It isn’t. Drogon’s been to Valyria before. I saw it in his mind, he flew over the city and the building is intact.”

 

“ Most of the city itself is still whole, in fact.” Jon added, looking down at the map again and then up once more to Arli, who had risen to his feet quietly and approached the desk.

 

He wore a terribly solemn expression on his face, avoiding Jon’s eyes as best he could.  
“What destroyed the Valyrian people wasn’t just fire and ash.” The priest said softly. Reaching out with one long fingered hand to touch the map with gentle, reverent fingers.

 

“The Doom of Valyria was born of hubris, hubris and greed and the stupidity of a sorcerer who wanted to be a god and not a mortal man,” Arli’s voice cracked as he spoke and he shut his golden eyes tightly, thin lips compressing into a line of grief filled misery.

 

“I wanted to be a God amongst men, “ Arli said as the opened his eyes again; no longer bothering to hide the tears that filled them and ran down his narrow, fox-like face. The priest’s voice cracked with grief as he spoke, heavy with a regret as vast as the sea.

 

“ I thought that if I could glut myself with enough dragonfire and blood magic that I could become one and to pursue that goal I did a monstrous, forbidden thing— and the price of my pride and selfish stupidity was the annihilation of my entire civilization.” 

 

“I got I wanted—in a sense.” Arli said bitterly, his mouth twisting into a sneer. 

 

“My crime bought me power the likes of which no mortal man or woman before me has ever known— or will ever know again.” The priest met Jon’s eyes, and Jon found that he couldn’t look away from them, he was caught in the mire of misery he found there, held captive by a guilt so terrible that though it wasn’t his own it felt as if it would crush him beneath its weight. 

 

“Ageless and immortal, I will walk this earth until the stars fall from the sky and the seas run dry and all the world becomes as silent as the grave my pride made for all that I loved —and I will carry the dying screams of men nd dragons with me every step of the way.” Arli rasped, sending a chill down Jon’s spine.

“Waking and sleeping I will have no peace as penance for my crimes.” Arli looked away at last, golden eyes drifting instead to the hearth where the fire crackled; freeing Jon from the prison of his gaze. 

 

“The thing I summoned gave me everything I desired and more—but for a price. That price was its freedom. I knew what it was, what it was capable of but my hunger blinded me to truth and so I agreed. I broke the bindings that held it prisoner because I thought that I’d taken every precaution beforehand and I believed that I could cheat it in the end, that my cleverness exceeded its ancient malice.” 

Jon had never in all his life been so horrified by a tale, but his horror could not match Arli’s. It lived in every word the man spoke and every breath he took.

“I was wrong—” the priest whispered. “I was wrong, and now all I wish is to make what few amends I can to those I have wronged. My people are gone and my home is in ruins but perhaps I can still do some small good in this world with the evil I wrought.” 

 

“I mean to help you to put an end to this ancient evil, It will not absolve me of my crimes —but would not see all the world become Valyria.”

 

Arli met Jon’s eyes, and the determination Jon saw reflected there almost matched the agony beneath it. 

 

“We are the last of the blood of Old Valyria, you and I, Aegon Targaryen and together we will return to our homeland. We will find the answers we seek there in the ruins and we will return from our journey whole and sound of mind and then we will destroy the creature that threatens us once and for all. “

 

From behind the priest came an unexpected voice—

 

“ Together, then,” said Wilmot, the old man rising wearily from his chair to walk over to thep air of them and stand beside the shame-faced priest. 

 

“Together,” added Tormund from his place by the fire. 

 

Jon had a hundred questions for Arli, a thousand worries piling up one on top of the other and he was terrified of what they were going to face in the ruins of Valyria—but at least he wouldn’t be facing it all alone. The questions could wait, it was a long way across the sea after all. 

 

“Together,” Jon said firmly, taking Arli’s thin hand in his own and grasping it tightly, and the weak smile that Arli offered him in return looked to him rather a lot like hope.


	19. Drogon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drogon remembers Valyria.

Drogon had withdrawn from the main courtyard of the castle once he’d been reassured of his rider’s relative safety. His decision to leave the courtyard had clearly been a profound relief to the men within, and their response to the dragon’s unexpected but entirely welcome departure of the castle proper had been to bring an ox out to the nest area that Drogon had chosen for himself a short distance away from the now-ruined front gate. 

 

Drogon suspected that their sudden generosity was more than likely bribery, or perhaps it was done as a display of their gratitude for his efforts at self restraint. Either way, it was a fair trade in the black dragon’s mind. He’d watched the men staking the unlucky beast out for him with a considerable amount of amusement at their barely restrained terror.

 

He did them the great kindness of allowing them to leave his presence alive and unburnt in exchange for his unexpected meal. As Drogon watched the black clad men retreat hurriedly back into the castle—all of them shooting wary looks back at him as they fled back to the dubious safety of their fortress; he couldn’t help but feel rather smug about the entire situation. 

 

Their fear pleased Drogon nearly as much as the ox they’d brought out for his meal.

 

A healthy amount of fear in the humans that surrounded him was important to him, because the he knew that it was that fear which would ultimately keep both himself and his new rider safe. 

Few were the men who would dare to harm Jon with Drogon close by. Sure in the knowledge that his vengeance for their stupidity would be swift and brutal. Men that would cross a dragon were rare and the truth was that only Jon himself would ever have dared to put a blade in Daenerys Targaryen’s broken heart. No other would have risked a dragon’s fury.

 

For his own part, Drogon was well aware that Jon had never expected to survive Daenerys’s death. Jon had faced his vengeance regardless, willing to pay the price for the choice he’d made—and for all that Drogon had known in his own heart that the act had been a necessary one. That it was what his mother would have wanted, were she in her right mind—instinct was a powerful thing for a dragon. 

 

Powerful and dangerous. It had taken every ounce of self control in the black dragon’s body not to kill Jon for what he’d done when Drogon at last laid eyes on his mother’s lifeless body. 

Daenerys had been so small, laying there in the bloody snow. She had always been a giant to Drogon and his siblings, larger than life and stronger than the seas and sky and just as enduring. Even when they were fully grown she had loomed above them in both mind and heart. In death however, with her fierce spirit flown from her mortal remains she was suddenly only a woman, and as he’d looked down at her it had been difficult for Hom to reconcile what he saw with the woman of his earliest memories.

 

It had suddenly seemed impossible that once upon a time he had ridden on her narrow shoulder, frightened of the heavy hooves of the horses around them and hiding beneath the pale silver of her hair in terror every time he heard an eagle scream above them. He remembered her hands. Her smile. Her kindness.

 

Her love. Always and forever her love. Drogon still missed her, powerfully and painfully and he knew that he always would. He also knew that he would be with her again one day, but it did not make her absence in the moment any easier to bear.

 

Jon himself was all that remained of Drogon’s mother now, the dark haired man was the last of his kind just as Drogon himself was. The loss of Jon would be impossible to bear and so Drogon would use the instinctive fear of a dragon’s retribution to keep both his rider and his soon to be born hatchlings safe without hesitation. Drogon could be merciful when he chose to be, however—-and a full belly did have the tendency to put him in a particularly magnanimous mood. Fear was necessary, but terror was not.

 

Once the men were well out of his sight Drogon took the opportunity to examine the ox that they’d left behind. He wasn’t particularly impressed with the beast, all things considered. It was a skinny thing, lowing in terror and fighting desperately against the rope that bound it to the stake the men had driven into the frozen earth to keep it in place. 

 

It wasn’t half so fine as the cows that the red haired woman (Sansa. Her name was Sansa) had offered him at Winterfell, but Drogon chose not to take offense at the poor quality of the offering. He well knew that there was little prey to be had this far north and that they’d brought him the best of what they had. It was the best of what they had, given in good faith and so it would do. 

 

For now. 

 

Drogon couldn’t help but feel incredibly proud of himself for his restraint. He knew that Jon would also be pleased with his display of forbearance, and Jon’s approval mattered a great deal to Drogon. He wanted very much to please his new rider, he wanted the man’s affection and attention fiercely—with a covetous sort of greed that that Drogon found mildly embarrassing to admit, even if only to himself and he would do a great many things to get it.

 

Including tolerating skinny cattle, it seemed.

 

It was the work of a single bite to kill the beast, and then one sharp gust of fire to char it properly and in short order the ox was in it’s new home in Drogon’s no-longer-empty belly. The dragon wasn’t as full as he would like to have been, but it would serve well enough for the moment—-at least until Drogon reach the sea and the better hunting that awaited him there. 

 

Rhaegal had always preferred to seek his prey on land, and Viserion’s secret and guilty pleasure had been humans—-but Drogon’s own preference was far and away for the fruits of the sea—whales, fish or porpoise. 

 

There were endless possibilities to be found beneath the waves and Drogon was an excellent swimmer, equally at home in the sea as he was on land. He loved all the prey he could find there but his favorite had ever and always been seals. Drogon loved them with every part of himself, from their rich fat to their crunchy bones. Easy to catch and shockingly filling for their small size they were one of the few things he enjoyed about the North and he could spend hours glutting himself on them. 

 

Anything was bearable as long as there were seals.

 

Eventually, after allowing his meal to digest a bit Drogon settled himself in for a well-earned rest. He curled himself up into as close a ball as he could, tucking the long length of his tail and his feet close to his body to conserve heat and using one large wing to seal himself off as best he could from the eternally falling snow. It was harder to stay warm now, without Rhaegal’s body to lean against, without her fire to match his own. He forced his mind away from the memory of her, and of Viserion. 

 

They were gone now, and Drogon knew that brooding on his own solitude was ultimately a fruitless endeavor. All that remained of Drogon’s siblings were the eggs ripening within him, and lingering on the memories of what he’d lost would serve no one. Drogon still had Jon and one day soon he would have his hatchlings as well. it would be enough. 

 

Drogon distracted himself from the miserable cold by imagining what his hatchlings might one day be like. Would they be dark as Drogon himself was, or pale as Viserion had been? Would their eyes be golden as Rhaegal’s or scarlet like his own? 

 

In truth there was no way to tell, and it was entirely possible that they would resemble none of them at all. There were as many variations among dragons as there were among humans and Drogon had no idea what his own parents had looked like. The three of them were siblings in heart, but not in flesh. They’d come from entirely different clutches of eggs, with no blood shared at all between the three of them. Good for breeding purposes perhaps but infuriating when it came to anticipating what their offspring might look like.

Their lineage was lost, and what would come of their mixed blood was anybody’s guess.

 

 

As the snow fell around him, Drogon allowed himself to consider the possibilities as he slid slowly towards sleep. He’d seen other dragons in the paintings and frescos in Valyria. Their images had looked nearly real enough to fly from the walls and floors they rested on and the array of colors and shapes he’d found there had been dizzying to say the very least. 

 

He’d studied them greedily for hours, his eyes hungry for the memory of the dragons whose songs he could still faintly hear echoing in the poisoned ruin that should have been his home. There had been greens and blues and golds, snowy whites and blackest blacks —purples and scarlets and every shade and combination in between. All beautiful. Glorious in their infinite variety. The family that Drogon himself would never know. Their lives snuffed out centuries before his own had ever begun.

 

All that remained of them had starred silently back at Drogon across time from the images that their riders had made of them. Love written in every brush stroke and carefully laid gemstone and tile. He’d found himself glad that they had died together—both men and dragons. Neither would have been able to survive without the other. Drogon felt it in his bones. It was better that they’d died together rather than grieve what had been lost forever. 

 

Drogon’s favorite of all of them had been a fresco he’d found painted inside the great dome of one of the massive and endlessly spiraling roosting towers. The dragon’s scales had been as pale as the snow that now slowly blanketed his own body, their markings blending from grey into deepest black at the wing with a great crest of horns that looked to Drogon much like a crown.

 

The white dragon’s eyes had been a blue so pale it had put him in mind of the Narrow Sea, and Drogon hadn’t been able to look away from their image for hours. Sometimes it had felt as if perhaps the long-dead dragonhad been looking back at him as well, but no matter how hard he’d pressed himself against the stone there had been no heartbeat to match his own and no song to answer his. 

 

They were gone, just like Viserion and Rhaegal. Just like his mother. Gone and never coming back, and it had been grief as much as fear that had ultimately driven Drogon away from the ruin of Valyria. Drogon and his rider were all that remained now of a people that had once ruled the world. As long as the two of them lived, Valyria was not entirely lost. One day, perhaps their offspring would return to reclaim their home from the evil that now infested it. Valyria might rise again from the ash, given time and careful planning. 

 

It was a fine thing to consider, as he let the snow cover him in a thick, white blanket. It distracted him from the pervasive chill he loathed so profoundly. Drogon hated the cold but most of all he despised the snow—and he absolutely detested having the wet, cold stuff on his face or in his eyess. There was only one sort of Snow he liked, and it bore little resemblance to the clinging, chilly blanket that now coated Drogon’s body.

 

Since his arrival in the North it had become his habit to sleep with his head tucked securely under one wing. It troubled Drogon to have to to cut off his immediate line of sight to the castle, but he consoled himself that all he needed to do was lift his wing and open one eye see the tower where he knew his rider was.

it wasn’t what he wanted, but much like the ox it would have to do for the moment. Drogon was well aware that Jon couldn’t be with him all the time, no matter how much Drogon desired it—the world around them had not been made with Dragons in mind. Not like Valyria.

 

The castles had nowhere for a dragon to land without causing damage and no way for them to come inside with their riders. As far as Drogon had seen in Westeros there was nowhere in the north or south where both dragon and rider might be comfortable at the same time. Not even on Dragonstone—which irked Drogon considerably. 

 

Drogon would see that changed, once their territory was secure and the threat removed. There would be castles made for men and dragons both, and Drogon’s hatchlings would never need to be separated from their riders because of a ridiculously thing like their size. 

 

He and his rider would remake the world to suit them. Why shouldn’t they? 

 

It was theirs, or at least it soon would be.

 

He and Jon would win it with fire and blood and it would never be taken from them again. They would never again be cold or hungry or afraid and there would be no more separation. No more loneliness. Where Jon went, so too would Drogon and they’d have no need to concern themselves with the opinions of lesser creatures. 

They were dragons, and that meant that the world was theirs by right—so long as they could hold it.

 

Drogon would much rather that Jon remain within his sight—preferably sleeping within the brood pouch beneath his wing but unfortunately he was well aware that his rider wouldn’t tolerate being fussed over in such a way. 

 

Jon Snow wasn’t a hatchling, no matter his size. Drogon knew that the man wouldn’t take kindly to Drogon treating him like one, no matter how well-intended it was. To stay in Jon’s good graces, Drogon would have to control himself.

 

He was resigned to the necessity of it, and to allowing his rider a measure of independence from his supervision but only so long as Drogon himself was close enough to take action if need be should something go awry. 

 

Drogon had long ago learned that humans as a rule could not be trusted. it had been difficult for him at first to accept that knowledge, but it was a truth that could not be denied. Not wisely, at any rate.

 

Betrayal was one of his earliest lessons, after all. Drogon been small and weak when Doreah had slain gentle Irri to steal he and his siblings from their mother. Drogon had loved Doreah, and he had trusted her completely and her reward for his affection had been murder and betrayal. She had killed Irri and separated him from his mother—all in the name of greed.

 

Drogon would never forget the lesson that the Lysene woman had taught him that day—never. He would carry it with him for the rest of his days and he would teach it to his hatchlings as well, that they might never need suffer as he had for his innocent trust in a woman who had not deserved it.

 

The only truly trustworthy humans were those like Jon, those precious few who could known to a dragon completely by virtue of the bond between them. There were no secrets between a dragon and their rider, and without secrets there was no possibility for betrayal. Jon could no more b stray Drogon than Drogon could betray Jon.

 

Men were treacherous, Drogon had seen what had happened to his rider the last time he’d been at Castle Black. Within Jon’s memories he’d felt the searing agony of the knives sliding into his own flesh and he’d the hate and greed in the eyes of the men that held them. It had been the same greed that had burned in Doreah’s eyes as she strangled Irri, Drogon helpless to do anything but watch the murder in terror. 

 

The men who had murdered Jon were long dead, Jon had left none left alive who he would suffer to sacrifice to Drogon’s desire for vengeance—but that did not change the fact that Drogon hungered for it. 

 

He could not have their blood, but he would take their fear. It would do—for the moment at least.

 

The last few days had been difficult ones, and with the eggs inside him sapping his strength so profoundly Drogon was resigned to making the most of his current relative safety and doing his level best to store as much extra energy as he could for the time of hardship he knew lay ahead of him. 

 

He would eat as much as he could, sleep as much as he could and hope that the reserves he built up in doing so would be enough to sustain both himself and the eggs within him during their upcoming journey.

 

Drogon knew all too well that there would be no rest for any of them them in Valyria. 

No rest, and no safety because Valyria was a land of many dangers— even for a dragon and Jon’s survival in that place would depend on Drogon’s strength and his ability to protect those in his care.

 

Any weakness on Drogon’s part would be potentially fatal and that was one thing that he couldn’t abide. Drogon would not allow himself to fail Jon. 

 

Not again.

 

Drogon had failed his mother. He had failed Rhaegal and Viserion as well. All that now remained of his siblings were the eggs he carried within him and the faint hope that with Jon by his side that the two of them could build a world where spears of ice and scorpion bolts would never touch them, A world where one day Jon’s own offspring might ride upon their backs as they were meant to do, man and dragon bound together as they were meant to be. 

 

Fierce. 

 

Free. 

 

If he faltered even for a moment while they were in Valyria the evil there would consume Drogon and Jon with the same gluttonous glee that it had their ancestors and their bones would join their kin in the ruins of the land that had given them birth. 

 

They would fly or they would fall, and as Drogon drifted towards sleep he consoled himself with the thought that no matter what lay ahead of them or what their fate would be at least they would face it together.

As Drogon slept, a shadow slowly detached itself from the gloom and slipped quietly into the castle on soundless feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter kicked my ass. I'm not entirely happy with it but it's time to move on, there are things to do and places to get and none of them involve navel-gazing dragons. Onward we march!


	20. Arya

It didn’t take long for Arya to realize that moving through the ancient and incredibly confusing winding halls of Castle Black was even more difficult than getting into it in the first place had been. Dragon included. Castle Black was old, but Arya realized that she had somehow allowed herself to forget just how old it really was. The outer sections were modern enough, but once you were inside of it the castle’s age became blindingly obvious. 

 

The oldest parts of the keep had been constructed in long ages past—in a time when men still remembered the White Walkers and the Wights and the battles they’d fought against them. Every one of those hard learned lessons were on display inside the inner areas of the keep, hidden just beneath the more modern outer shell. 

 

The North was Arya’s home, and while she loved it with all her heart even she would admit that it was a land of extremes. The cold and wind were ever-present, and even in summer it wasn’t unusual for snow to fall. The screaming winds that blew in from beyond the wall were cutting and constant and they would wear away even the sturdiest stone wasn’t immune to it’s biting, icy teeth. Time would eventually claim even Ironwood, given enough opportunity. 

 

That meant that the outer walls of the keep had been replaced many times over the years, and to Arya’s keen gaze the stone itself told a tale of many hands and many architects. 

 

The outer keep was ordinary enough but within the walls changed abruptly from the pale stone mined from the cliffs at White Harbor to a shining and strange black that Arya had never seen anywhere else. Not even at Winterfell, which was to her knowledge the oldest castle in the North. 

The black walls were bare things, close and dark with few windows. The windows themselves were constructed on an angle, an angle whose purpose Arya immediately understood. She wished that they’d had such things at Winterfell. That strange construction would prevent wights from forcing themselves into the castle through the windows. Ventilation was necessary in a castle—but it was also a vulnerability. 

 

These windows would allow air to pass though—but not a wight. Even if one were somehow able to squeeze itself into the opening from the outside it would never be able to make it past the sharp bend once it had. 

 

The price of that safety however meant that none of them large enough to let in any sort of light. Castle Black was named not only for it’s inhabitants, but for the structure itself. Within the keep there was little light and instead of wide halls there were winding corridors that would have shamed a rabbit warren with their complexity. So narrow in some places that one man with outstretched arms could touch either wall—and just like the windows they too had been designed to make holding the castle against an overwhelming foe possible for a small force trapped within. One man could hold a hall alone, and when he tired there would be another behind him, waiting to take his place while he rested and regained his strength. 

 

The Living could never match the endless energy and hunger of the dead—but by working together the impossible suddenly became possible. 

As she looked at them, Arya couldn’t help but remember her father’s words all those years ago in King’s Landing and the lesson he had tried to teach her there. The hair suddenly standing up on the back of her neck as his rasping and ever-solemn voice echoed in her ears. 

“ When the snows fall and the white wind blows, the lone wolf dies. But the pack survives.” 

 

Old words, old truths. 

 

Unfortunately for Arya, the same cunning ingenuity that made Castle Black so difficult to conquer for the dead also made it near impossible for her to move unseen within it. There were no nooks or crannies to duck into, and the blind corners meant that there was no way to predict when or where another person might appear until they were already face to face. 

 

After a few long moments of debate, Arya at last gave in to the inevitable and surrendered stealth for speed. If luck was with her, she would make it to the Lord Commander’s quarters unseen. If it wasn’t—she’d deal with the situation as it came. 

 

Either way, Arya WOULD be seeing her brother. The only question that remained was just how many bodies she’d need to step over to do so. 

 

She did her best to be quiet, softening her footfalls and keeping her ears keen. Arya had never imagined that she’d be grateful for the time she’d spent without her vision in Braavos but grateful she most certainly was as she closed her eyes and broke into a run. Arya might not be able to SEE the Black brothers coming but she COULD hear them and by the time she’d finally reached Jon’s chambers she’d managed to dodge no less than three Black Brothers by the skin of her teeth. 

Getting in was no trouble, and once within the gloom of her brother’s rooms she let out a soft sigh of relief. She’d made it and nobody had died. A silly thing for an assassin to be pleased about perhaps—but no less true. Killing didn’t trouble Arya, but if she could avoid doing it she would. 

Jon was asleep. He lay sprawled out on his bed, and as Arya crept closer she could see the lines of worry that had begun to bloom at the corners of his eyes and the frown on his lips. Some things never changed, Arya thought fondly as she looked down at him. Even asleep Jon couldn’t help but worry and brood. 

 

Ghost was nowhere to be seen, Arya realized suddenly after casting her eyes around the dimly lit room . She’d thought surely the white wolf would be with Jon, but it seemed that the direwolf had plans of his own elsewhere. 

 

“Jon.” Arya was so very careful as she touched his pale hand, giving it a squeeze. She knew from personal experience that a man or woman who’d seen as much war and death as she and Jon had could be dangerous if they were startled. 

 

Arya was infinitely glad that she’d been prepared for it because no sooner had his name left her lips than Jon surged into violent wakefulness. One arm lashed out, clutching a knife that Arya hadn’t realized was concealed beneath her brother’s pillow. It missed her face by half a cat’s whisker, and she could feel the hiss of disturbed air on her skin as she jerked back to avoid it’s gleaming length. 

 

“Jon, it’s me!” she hissed as she reared back again to avoid his backswing. His eyes were wild and she could see the white at their edges as lucidity began to overtake his panic. Her heart leapt into her throat as from outside, she could hear Drogon letting out an angry roar—the sound cutting off abruptly as Jon at last realized who’d awakened him. 

 

“Arya?” the baffled look on Jon’s face as he stared at her almost made up for nearly stabbing her. 

 

Almost. 

 

“Not exactly the welcome I was hoping for, Jon.” Arya replied, a faint smirk tugging at her thin lips.

 

Jon stared at her as if he’d seen a ghost for a handful of moments. His mind laboriously doing it’s best to make some sort of sense of the situation. It was all Arya could do not to snicker as she watched him. She could almost see the gears turning in his mind. 

 

 

“What are you doing here?” Jon’s confusion was still clear, but his shock was rapidly being replaced by joy and when he reached out to pull her in for a hug, Arya went gladly. She hugged him as tightly as she could, burying her face against the side of his neck and breathing him in. Jon still smelled like home. 

 

“I’m not allowed to visit my favorite brother?” Arya muttered the words against Jon’s skin, still entirely unwilling to let him go. Thankfully Jon didn’t seem to be in any hurry to let go either, so the two of them simply sat there in the dark, clutching one another just as they had as children when Jon had been the only one who’d understood her. 

 

Bran, Rickon, Sansa and Robb were the siblings of Arya’s blood— but Jon was the brother of her heart and always had been. The only person in her family that’d never asked her to be anything but what she was, and who had loved her regardless. 

 

Arya felt him press a kiss to her temple before learning back to look at her, and she was glad to see that some of the lines around his eyes had eased and that constant frown of his was gone—-at least for the moment. 

 

“You’re always welcome, Arya.” Jon said fiercely. 

 

“Wherever I am and whatever I’m doing you will ALWAYS be welcome, you know that—but you’re supposed to be halfway across the world right now. What in the name of all the gods brought you here of all places?”

 

“You, stupid.” 

 

Jon floundered, Arya could see the confusion his eyes. It hurt her, by all the gods did it hurt her to know that even now Jon had no concept of how much he meant to her. The saddest part was that she knew the reason. Who had ever picked Jon Snow first? Who had ever sacrificed anything for him? Jon gave, and the world took and Arya hated it with all her black, broken heart. 

 

“Did you really think I was just going to sail off into the sunset like some idiot in a nursery tale?” 

 

The guilty expression that bloomed on Jon’s solemn face was Arya’s answer. 

 

“You did.” she said flatly. 

 

“ Of course you did. Why wouldn’t you?” It took every ounce of restraint in Arya’s body to resist the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose in pure frustration.  
“Arya, I—“

 

“You’re an idiot.” Arya interrupted bluntly. 

 

There was a moment of fierce consternation on Jon’s face before it faded into fondness. It made Arya want to both shake him and hug him until his ribs creaked. 

 

“So I’ve been told,” Jon said ruefully, and it made Arya roll her eyes at him. 

 

“I was never going anywhere, Jon. I just didn’t want to be Arya Stark anymore.” Arya explained gently. 

 

“ Arya Stark killed the Night King. Arya Stark was a hero. Arya Stark was a Lady and a Princess.” Arya did her best not to think too hard about the understanding that was beginning to bloom over Jon’s face. Jon understood. Of course he would. He always had.

 

“Arya Stark was never going to have another moment’s peace ever again in her entire fucking life so Arya Stark had to go do what legends do. Leave. “

 

“Now *I* can do what I please—” Arya said grimly. “ —without the entire bloody world watching me like a wolf watches a spring lamb.“

 

“All this time I wanted to come home-“ Arya said as she settled herself beside Jon, tucking her legs up and resting her chin on them just as she had a hundred times as a child. 

 

“— but when I finally got there it wasn’t home anymore. It was just a place, like any other. It wasn’t until you came back that I realized that Winterfell was never really my home at all.” 

 

“It was you, Jon. It was always you. Home is people— not places. You’re my family, my pack. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be than with you. You’re my brother. You were the first and only friend I ever had growing up.” 

 

 

Arya didn’t like thinking about her childhood. It wasn’t terrible—the world had shown her just how fortunate she’d been to be born into the family she had been but it didn’t change the fact that she’d been terribly unhappy for almost as long as she could remember as a little girl. The only bright spot in her life had been Jon. 

 

“Sansa hated me because I wasn’t a fine lady like her and Mother.” Arya hated the bitterness she could hear in her own voice, but she knew that Jon would never judge her for it, so she kept talking. 

 

“I wasn’t pretty or graceful like them, and I couldn’t sew or sing or do any of the things they liked to do. To Sansa and Jeyne I was Arya Horseface and I was embarrassing. I was never going to be good enough for them—so I stopped trying to be.”

 

“Robb was just too busy to pay me much mind. Bran hated that I was better than him at everything—including ‘boys’ things and Rickon was just too little.” 

 

“—-You were the only person who loved me for who I was, not who you wanted me to be. You didn’t care that I wasn’t a Lady. I was your sister, and that was enough. “ Arya wasn’t exactly sure when the tears started, but once they had they felt hot as dragonfire as they seared their way down her pale cheeks. 

 

“I was enough for you. I’ve never been enough for anybody else. They always want things that I can’t give them. “

 

Arya scrubbed the tears away from her face impatiently, angry that they’d come but unable to stop them. “Mother and Sansa wanted me to be a Lady. Gendry wanted me to be his wife. Jaqen wanted me to be No One. The world wants me to be a Hero.” 

 

When Arya finally looked back at Jon, she was stunned to see that there were tears in his eyes too, she could see them glinting in his beard in the firelight.

 

“I just want to be Arya.” 

 

The words came out as a whisper, cracked and aching with pain that Arya had buried in rage since the day she’d watched her father’s murder. Sandor had broken her fury, but in its sudden absence all that was left behind was pain. In a secret part of her heart, Arya was still the girl who’d clung to a statue’s legs and prayed for a miracle that never came.

 

Jon didn’t wait so much as half a heartbeat before he hauled Arya back into his arms again, gripping her skinny body so tightly that she could barely breathe and pressing his face against the crown of her dark hair. 

 

“You are.” he rasped, holding her tightly enough that Arya fancied she could hear her ribs creaking. She never wanted him to stop. 

 

“You’re enough. You’ve always been enough for me and you always will be. I don’t care where you go or what you do or who you become—you’re my sister and I’ll always love you. Doesn’t matter whose face you wear or whose name you use, you’re you and that’s the only thing that matters.”

 

It was a long time before either of them spoke again and they spent that time clinging to one another. Arya at last letting the walls she’d made in her heart come crumbling down and Jon allowing himself to be selfish for once and pushing aside anything and everything but his sister. Arya needed him and that was all that mattered. He had a hundred things to do—but for the moment the only thing he intended on was holding his little sister until she remembered how much he loved her.

 

“There are things I have to tell you, things you need to know and choices you need to make—. “ Jon said against her hair, his voice soft and solemn. “—but not now.” 

 

“No. Not now. “ Arya agreed quietly before hiding her face against his chest and shutting her eyes. For the first time in years, she finally felt safe. She was home. THEY were home. Sleep rushed over her like a tide and for the first time since her father died her slumber was deep and dreamless. Jon following her down into the peaceful dark not long after.

 

That was how Tormund found them the next morning. The two of them coiled around one another in a graceless tangle like a pair of wolf cubs. Jon doing his level best to wrap himself as tightly around his smaller sister as he possibly could and Arya clutching at him as if even in sleep she feared that if she let go of him he’d vanish. It made something twist harshly in Tormund’s chest as he looked at them. The way they held on to one another so fiercely reminded him painfully of his own children. How they’d clung to one another so tightly that even in death the wights they became had clutched at one another’s hands even as they tried their best to tear him apart. 

 

Tormund left them to sleep a little longer, there were arrangements to be made because he knew already that their party of four had just become a party of five.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise? XD


	21. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hardhome at last. Let's get this party started.

After Arya’s unexpected arrival it was another week before Jon and his party of ‘rangers’ were finally able to set out from Castle Black. Arya well-hidden among the Free Folk—wearing the face of a girl Jon had never seen before. Drogon having already departed two days earlier, much to the black dragon’s very clear displeasure.

Jon had spent two entire of days of that week of preparation simply trying to convince the dragon that it would be safe for him to let Jon out of his sight for an extended period of time. Jon hadn’t expected it to be easy—not when Drogon already seemed to only just barely tolerate the fact that Jon preferred to sleep in the castle in a warm bed instead of out in the snow with him—- but he’d assumed that he’d be able to bring Drogon around fairly easily once he explained things.

Unfortunately for him, he’d underestimated the black dragon’s reaction to his clever plan by several orders of magnitude. Drogon had resisted the entire concept, and had made his feelings on the matter brutally and loudly clear. Even to those who couldn’t feel the tangled echo of the black dragon’s raging emotions inside their heads. 

The pair of them had ended up bickering with one another out in the snow by the dragon’s makeshift nest. Drogon roaring and hissing at Jon in frustrated fury when Jon refused to back down from his plan and Jon himself shouting and swearing back at the dragon in an uncharacteristic display of temper that had shocked everyone who witnessed it. 

 

Jon had never argued so fiercely in front of other people before,—at least not since he was a boy at Winterfell with Robb and Theon on the rare occasions that the other boys had managed to rouse the sleeping giant that was Jon’s temper. Theon had always found it great fun to wind him up—-and much to Jon’s resentment. Even worse, the other boy had had a knack for it— and so Jon had eventually begun to refuse to rise to the bait. He’d made it his goal to never give Theon the reaction he’d so clearly wanted ever again. 

Jon couldn’t fight Theon, he was a bastard and Theon was the heir of his own House, hostage or not. But Jon COULD refuse to give him the satisfaction of his fury—and so he’d given him winter instead. Cold and dark and silent as the grave. Implacable and steady. 

Jon did have to admit however that even at his worst, he and the other boys had never managed to be quite so loud about their disagreements as Jon and Drogon had been—-and there had been considerably less dragonfire involved.

Jon had discovered too late that arguing with a dragon wasn’t like arguing with a man— or a brother for that matter. It was hard to get the concept of the greater good across to a creature that would just as happily char the world to ash and dust if it were asked of him and who would—given the option, be perfectly content to fly off with Jon and leave the rest of humanity to their eventual fate and consider the entire matter none of his concern so long as his rider was safe.

 

Drogon didn’t care about humans as a whole. He’d eat a man just as easily as he’d eat a goat and sleep just as well at night afterwards. It was only his desire to please Jon that leashed him and not any real sense of altruism. Drogon was capable of enjoying the presence of certain people, of caring for them even—but that care wasn’t given in abstract. Dragons cared only for the individual, not the whole.

 

 

Eventually though, Drogon had given in and agreed to their plan, Jon’s own pigheadedness outlasting the dragon’s ability to match it. Drogon hadn’t taken the loss well, however—-and afterwards he’d made his resentment of Jon’s hard won victory clear by refusing to acknowledge his rider for nearly two days. Only relenting when Jon had brought Arya out to introduce her to the dragon properly. 

 

There’d been no time for such things before. Daenerys had been fiercely protective of her children—allowing no one but her most intimate companions and the most trusted of her Bloodriders near her dragons without her presence and by the time the battle at Winterfell was over the Dragon Queen hadn’t been inclined to exchange pleasantries with Jon’s family. Not that Jon could really blame her, in retrospect. Their reception of her had been worse than he’d ever imagined it could be. Only Arya had shown her any hint of warmth—Sansa had made no secret of her loathing and the smallfolk had followed her lead. Just as they had Lady Catelyn when he was a boy. 

 

No matter how much some things changed, others would remain the same. 

 

The result of their lack of welcome had meant that Sansa and Arya had only ever seen Dany’s dragons at a distance. Sansa had been glad enough, Jon knew that she had envied and hated Dany for having them at all. She’d feared them and the power they’d given the Dragon Queen and the last thing she’d wanted was to be close to them. Sansa had never liked anything she couldn’t control, a trait that seemed to have only become more securely rooted as the years had passed.

 

But Jon knew that Arya had been disappointed, though his sister had done her best not to show it. 

 

Arya had always loved dragons. When she was small, her favorite game had been to pretend that she was Visenya Targaryen, and Jon would hoist her up onto his back and play the part of Vhagar—-flying her around the castle with his cloak spread out like grey wings while she shrieked her delight and waved the stick she called Dark Sister around his head—-and if sometimes she’d missed her target and whack him in the head by accident Jon had never felt the need to complain. 

 

He’d feared that after King’s Landing that dragons would have been soured for her but Jon needn’t have worried. Once she was certain that Jon was Drogon’s rider Arya’s misgivings had faded to nothing. Arya didn’t blame Drogon for what he’d done in the south. Only Dany. Drogon’s fire may have burnt the city but Arya knew that it was Dany’s will that saw it done—not Drogon’s. Her awe at finally seeing a real dragon up close had made Jon’s heart twist with a sweet sort of pain. 

 

Arya could be so cold, so closed off from the world and the people in it—the cold woman she’d become was nothing like the little girl Jon had grown up with. Yet when Jon brought her to meet Drogon, for a moment Arya had become the girl he remembered again. Wide-eyed and full of wonder like the child she’d been when Jon left her at Winterfell all those years ago. 

Before Cersei and Joffrey and rest of the world had conspired together to murder the light in her heart and her innocence along with their father. Jon had hated them all for what they’d done to Ned Stark. For what they’d done to Robb and yes, even to Lady Catelyn—-but it was what they’d done to Arya that tormented him at night. 

 

They’d killed the others, but they’d shattered Arya —-and the person his little sister had made from the shards they’d left her with was a woman composed entirely of sharp edges and rage. Filled with a terrible hunger that Jon couldn’t entirely understand and wasn’t sure he wanted to even if he could. 

 

For a time after their reunion Jon had feared that there was nothing left inside of his little sister but rage and hate. He knew it wasn’t so now—but he still worried for her none the less. 

Drogon made her happy, though —and for that Jon would forgive anything the dragon ever did for the rest of his days. Purely for putting that expression of joy on Arya’s pale little face once more. 

 

Arya’s reaction Jon had expected—but Drogon’s had surprised him. 

 

Jon had anticipated tolerance from Drogon, as with Sansa. He’d allowed the older girl more liberties than Jon had ever expected —but that hadn’t been because of any sort of affection on Drogon’s part. He’d simply not wanted to displease Jon. 

 

That wasn’t the case with Arya.

 

Much to Jon’s surprise Drogon had been just as fascinated with Arya as Arya was with him. The two of them had circled one another like wary cats at first, but caution had faded to curiosity after Drogon had sniffed at Arya and she’d failed to flinch. After a long moment of deliberation the black dragon had warmed to her with shocking speed. After a few more minutes, to Jon’s breathless surprise Arya had even dared to stroke one trembling hand down the pebbled roughness of Drogon’s nose. 

Drogon had allowed it, even bumping the smaller girl with his snout when she’d seemed like she might be considering stopping. Jon had needed to move quickly then just to keep his little sister from ending up head first in a snowbank. 

 

Not intentionally of course—Drogon had not meant to harm her but because being gentle or not, it was all too easy for a dragon to hurt a creature as small as a human, and Arya had always been slight. Arya had only laughed and shoved Jon off of her. Going right back to stroking Drogon and softly telling him how wonderful he was while Drogon chirped in agreement. 

 

If Jon didn’t know better, he’d have sworn that the dragon had looked positively smug about the entire affair. 

 

One thing had puzzled him at the time, however—and in truth still did if Jon were being honest with himself. As he’d watched the two of them getting acquainted he’d reached out to Drogon with his mind—curious to see what the dragon thought of Arya. Only to find that his link with Drogon seemed oddly muted. As if the black dragon were trying to shut him out for some reason. Not entirely of course, neither of them could entirely shut out the other —-even if they wanted to. But whatever it was that Drogon felt about Arya, it seemed that he wasn’t inclined to share it with Jon.

 

At least not at the moment. 

 

Jon had never been a jealous man before. Perhaps that’s why he’d been more than a little chagrined to discover that when it came to Drogon he was incredibly disinclined to share his dragon’s affections. Even with Arya. He was jealous and from the gleam in Drogon’s red eyes as he bid Arya farewell the black dragon knew it too—-and approved. 

Jon couldn’t help but wonder if the dragon hadn’t been so friendly out of pure spite.

 

That had been the better part of two weeks ago. 

 

The slow journey to Hardhome had been a difficult one, and Jon was painfully glad to see the settlement looming out of the mist in the distance at last. A soft sigh slipped from Jon’s lips and filled the cold air in front of him with fog as he watched the shoreline creep closer. Only a little longer and then their real journey would begin. 

As soon as they were close enough to shore Jon vaulted over the side of the skiff and into the knee deep icy water with Tomund to help the other man guide it safely into dock. The water was just as miserably cold as Jon remembered it being. It made even thick Stark skin ache.

 

Once the skiff was high enough on the beach that it was in no danger of being pulled back in by the tide Jon turned his attention to Hardhome itself while the others began unloading their supplies. Looking around at the empty settlement Jon couldn’t help but think to himself that Hardhome was even more desolate than he’d remembered it being. The camp was silent as the grave, which Jon had expected— but the weight of that silence new. It felt strange. Off, somehow. 

 

Unnatural.

 

The emptiness of Hardhome was the desolation of sudden loss. Of catastrophic disruption— and from the look on Tormund’s grim and cold-chapped face when Jon met the wildling’s eyes Jon could tell that his friend could feel it as well. 

 

“Something’s not right here.” Tormund said, jarring Jon out of the murky tangle of his own thoughts. The other man’s voice carefully pitched low to keep it from carrying on the still air.

 

“Aye.” Jon agreed, his own voice grim with certainty.

 

“Keep your weapons close, and stick together.“ Jon added, looking to Tormund, but also raising his voice so that it would carry to the others as well. At the sound of Jon’s voice, the others seemed to freeze in place to listen. 

 

“Nobody goes off on their own. We stay in eyesight of one another at all times. Drogon will be here soon enough, but until he arrives we all need to be careful.” 

 

There was no reluctance to follow Jon’s commands, now— and that more than anything told him that it wasn’t just himself and Tormund that were feeling uneasy. After a round of solemn ‘ayes’ the others went back to their tasks. Even Arli lent a hand, though from the look of the man the last thing on earth the red haired priest had any familiarity with was hard labor.

 

Tormund jarred Jon out of his thoughts again—his voice pitched low once more. For Jon’s ears only. “Never thought I’d be eager to ride a dragon, but if it means getting out of here I’d ride the Night King’s pecker from here to Skaagos—never mind a fire breathing lizard.” Tormund muttered darkly, his eyes restlessly scanning the ruined huts for any sign of trouble.

 

Jon snorted in surprised amusement before he could stop himself and then gave Tormund a fond sidelong glance. If they had to be there at all, Jon was painfully glad that Tormund was with them. No matter how grim things were, somehow the ginger haired man always found a way to make Jon smile. Often entirely against his own will. Jon wasn’t a merry man by nature, and like as not he never would be but there was something contagious about Tormund’s ability to bring light into the darkest of moments with his razor tongue and ready wit. 

 

Unfortunately, not even Tormund’s light could dispel the pall hanging over Hardhome. The icy wind that tore through the ruins of what had once been a thriving settlement had a keening cry that Jon had never heard before and that tiny spark of levity abruptly guttered and died like a snuffed candle. 

 

There was something terribly wrong about Hardhome, Jon could feel it in his bones. The entire place had the hair on the back of his neck standing on end and something uneasy twisted sickly in his gut, growing stronger with every moment that passed. 

 

Foolish though it was Jon couldn’t help but wish that Drogon were there already. Or that he hadn’t sent the dragon so far out before turning back to come collect them in the first place. Wishing did no good, however—-Jon knew that all he could do was hope that the dragon arrived before whatever evil lingered in the ruins of Hardhome decided to make it’s move.

 

He ruthlessly forced his mind away from the thought. There was no time for wishful thinking. Not here and not now. There was no sense in longing for a thing he couldn’t have. Drogon would be there soon, and until then Jon would do what he’d done for the entirety of his life until meeting the dragon. 

Survive. 

 

It was reasonable, but that didn’t make Jon like it any better. He still wished Drogon were there.

 

Drogon was a new part of Jon’s life, that was true enough —-but the longer they were together the more difficult it had become for him to imagine his life without the prickly black dragon in it. 

 

There had always been empty spaces inside of Jon, dark and empty caverns that nobody and nothing had ever managed to fill. That had all changed the moment that Drogon had come to claim him. Now those spaces were slowly being filled with Drogon, and Jon knew that the reverse was also true for his dragon. The dragon influenced the man, Aye. But the man influenced the dragon no less. Give and take. A dragon was not a slave—but neither was a man bound to one.

 

Theirs was a bond of equals. 

Drogon had always been the most aggressive of Dany’s dragons. Even Dany herself had been wary of his unpredictable temper as he’d matured. She’d told him stories of his snarling fights with his siblings—and that he’d even snapped at her when he was younger. The black dragon was easily angered and had little patience for anyone or anything that did not please him and his displeasure was usually accompanied by a hearty gout of dragonfire. 

 

That had changed somewhat since he’d bonded with Jon. To Jon’s surprise, after their first flight together the black dragon had become considerably less moody and far less prone to snap or snarl over trivialities—growing progressively more stable the more time he spent with Jon. Even Jon, who admittedly knew precious little about dragons— could tell the difference between the dragon Drogon had been before and the dragon he was fast becoming. If Drogon’s fire had moved Jon to find his own, then Jon’s ice seemed to have at long last taught Drogon a measure of temperance. 

 

Drogon would never be gentle Viserion, or quiet Rhaegal— but the barely contained fury the black dragon had carried with him for as long as Jon had known him had slowly mellowed into something manageable and that was no small thing. They were better together than they were apart. With every day that passed, Jon learned more about what it meant to be a Dragonlord of Valyria. 

 

Suddenly, a cry went up from one of the free folk; jarring Jon abruptly from his thoughts. The call had come from Agnes. A middle aged woman with silver streaked fire-kissed hair who'd had just enough time to call out once before the massive, rotting tentacle that had risen soundlessly from the icy water snatched her up and pulled her shrieking and struggling into the murky depths of the harbor—-silencing her screams forever. 

 

“TO ARMS!” Jon shouted out as Longclaw sang free of it’s sheath as he ran forward. Jon skidded to a stop near the sledge that held their good and gear desperately slicing off a smaller tentacle which had latched itself onto their supplies—attempting to drag them towards the water. Jon pulled them back, fighting to get them as far from the water as possible and out of the beast’s reach. They couldn’t lose those supplies, if Jon let the creature take them they were finished—there would be no way to survive Valyria without them. 

 

The tentacle he’d severed kept writhing on the snow, spilling putrid ichor as it twisted—still blindly searching for prey. The foul stench of it was overpowering. Nearly enough to make even Jon's iron gut give up the ghost and spill it’s contents into the snow. 

 

Arli, Arya and Tormund had already fallen back to the ruined meeting hall. Arli igniting a wall of flame between them and the creature that seemed to drive the beast back at least a little. Jon was beginning to think that perhaps they might be out of it’s reach—-but that hope died as he watched the horror begin hauling itself up and out of the water. When the bloated shape of it’s mantle at last cleared the surface Jon realized with numb terror exactly what it was. 

 

It was a kracken, an undead kraken. 

 

The creature was massive, unlike anything Jon had ever seen before or even imagined. A horror that belonged in nightmares, not in the waking world. It was larger than Drogon, half again the black dragon’s size. It’s rotting flesh dull black and murky green and it had glowing blue eyes the size of cart wheels that burned with blind, malevolent hunger. As the kraken dragged itself onto land with single minded determination Jon realized that they were going to die.

 

A living kraken was bound to the sea—-but an undead one was as terrible on land as it was in the water. 

 

They were too few to fight such a creature and they had no weapon that might pierce it’s thick hide. Arya had fired a dozen arrows into the beast already, but none of them had penetrated it’s slimy outer flesh. Valyrian steel could cut it —but if Jon dared try and get close enough to do it any real damage the monstrous thing would crush him to paste before he could ever strike it. 

 

Jon cast his eyes desperately around them, looking for a way they might retreat—they could not fight the awful thing but perhaps they could outrun it. There was no place for pride when facing such a foe. He would run, and gladly in hopes that they might live to fight another day. 

 

Jon realized with sinking regret that the only gates that might have led them to safety were blocked by both the creature itself and the ruins of the meeting hall. Even if they somehow managed reach it, they would never be able to clear the debris in time. 

 

In the midst of his despair, Jon at last saw the source of their doom. On top of the sheer ice cliff where he’d once watched the Night King raise up an army of dead wildlings stood a white walker. Only this one was different from the aged looking creatures that Jon had seen before. This one was younger, it’s pale skin smoother and it’s flesh far less skeletal. There was an awful beauty to it’s cruel face as it looked down at him, a smug smile hovering on it’s blue lips as it drank in his despair with obvious satisfaction. 

 

Jon had never hated anyone or anything as much as he hated the creature on the cliff. It made his soul burn with a fury he’d never felt before—and all he could do was scream his rage at it as one of those putrid, dripping tentacles lifted up into the air to crush him beneath it. 

 

Before it could land however— a gout of black fire rained down from the sky above them. Turning the rotting tentacle to ash instantly. Jon couldn’t choke back his cry of relief as Drogon dropped down from the cloud line and he had the singular pleasure of watching the smug look of triumph on the young White Walker’s face turn into horror and fear as Drogon’s furious roar echoed over the water.


	22. Drogon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hardhome

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit guys, this chapter fought me almost as hard as the kraken. Comments are love as always. <3

Terror surged into Drogon’s mind with the force of a screaming gale. Shocking him so utterly that for a moment his wings froze mid-beat and Drogon suddenly found himself dropping from the sky like a stone, flight forgotten as he was held frozen in its awful grip. It took him a breathless moment to realize that the tide of overwhelming fear that threatened to steal his reason was not his own and to regain his equilibrium enough to climb back into the sky, but once he had the black dragon’s fear was fast replaced by overwhelming fury. 

 

Jon was in danger. Mortal danger, if the echo of helpless desperation that surged along their link was any indication and as he flew, beneath the deafening roar of Drogon’s fury there was a terrible fear that was blooming inside him. The fear that he would not reach his rider in time to save him from whatever peril he was in. 

 

In Drogon’s secret heart he worried that he would be too late, that he would fail the man who’d been so willing to trust in him even when he’d had every reason not to and that was something that the black dragon could not bear. 

He had failed his mother, he couldn’t fail Jon as well.

 

Jon was his. Flesh, blood and bone, the boy belonged to Drogon and he would not allow him to be stolen away. He had to reach him. He had to save Jon. 

 

He would save him or he would die trying. 

 

Drogon should never have let the boy send him so far away. Never, and if they survived the battle to come then Drogon didn’t care WHAT Jon Snow said—he was never letting the man out of his sight again for the rest of their days. 

 

Drogon knew that there was only one way to reach his rider in time. Only one chance for him to close the distance between them in time to save Jon as he could not save his mother—and so Drogon summoned up all the courage inside of himself and took it. His black wings scooping at the air hungrily as he began to climb toward his fate. 

 

Drogon had never flown so fast or so recklessly in all his life as he did then, his wings screaming in agony as he rose higher in the cold winter sky than he’d ever dared before—higher even than he’d flown during his bonding flight with Jon.

 

High enough to catch the dangerous air currents of the High Wind —currents that scoured even Drogon’s thick scales to rawness and threatened to break his wings with their strength and cast him back down to the earth as punishment for his presumption. 

 

Only the oldest and strongest of dragons dared the High Wind, it was death for the weak and the small. Those without the size and strength to hold fast against it’s force were doomed—-but Drogon didn’t care. 

 

Couldn’t care. 

 

How could he, when Jon’s terror was a fire burning inside him, eclipsing everything but Drogon’s desperate and overpowering need to reach his rider before he lost him forever. 

 

_Let me die, then. _Drogon thought in desperation as he locked his wings against the howling agony of the gale—his bones screaming in protest as the wild current caught him up and dragged him along with it at breakneck speed and it wasn’t long before Drogon could feel wetness trickling down his face and from the sulphuric bite of it he knew it for blood not tears.__

__

__Drogon was too young for the High Wind, too small. He was larger than either of his siblings had been but he was not strong enough to safely navigate the High Wind yet—and his body knew it. But Drogon would rather let the High Wind tear him asunder than feel the awful emptiness that his rider’s death would bring in its wake if he failed to reach Jon in time._ _

__

___Ancestors—-Break me in your teeth if that is Your will. Snuff out my fire if it pleases you, I will give my own life gladly if it means that you will spare Jon Snow./i >_

____ _ _

____The wind howled around him, fury its only answer to Drogon’s plea—-but Drogon felt himself flooded with new determination and he immediately knew its source. The biting chill of the magic that fed him belonged to Jon. Drogon would know it anywhere. Even in mortal peril, Jon gave of himself and that was what gave Drogon the strength he needed._ _ _ _

____ _ _

____No one had ever truly fought for Jon Snow before. Had Drogon not seen it so in his rider’s mind himself? Jon had not bonded with Drogon by his own choice— Jon had been meant for clever, steady Rhaegal. Rhaegal, who would have matched his gentle heart with her own—- but Drogon’s sister was dead. Her bones lie still and cold on the sea floor at Dragonstone. Only Drogon now remains, and Drogon had chosen Jon._ _ _ _

____ _ _

____Now and always._ _ _ _

____ _ _

____Filled with single minded determination Drogon somehow managed to tuck in his wings again, and as he fought his way free of the currents of the High Wind he angled his head downward. Diving through the heavy clouds like the sea-hawks that had hunted in the cold waters around Dragonstone._ _ _ _

____ _ _

____Drogon had barely a breath to take in the looming form that seemed prepared to crush his rider beneath it’s bulk before he sucked in a massive breath and exhaled the hottest fire he could—-and as he fell towards the earth his heart sang to hear Jons cry of relief._ _ _ _

____Jon was alive._ _ _ _

____ _ _

____Drogon had reached him in time._ _ _ _

____ _ _

____He wasn’t too late. He had not failed his rider._ _ _ _

____ _ _

____Not this time._ _ _ _

____ _ _

____The creature in the water was massive ——but Drogon didn’t care. The only thing that mattered to him now was protecting Jon and so he made his choice. Keeping his wings tight against his body he put out his taloned hind-feet and hit the creature with all the force of his decent. If it had been alive, the impact alone would have killed it._ _ _ _

____ _ _

____It wasn’t however—and so the impact of Drogon’s body only sent the two of them skidding back into the water; with Drogon latched onto the creature with tooth and claw and every ounce of resolve in his body. He would kill it and Jon would live. Or it would kill him and Jon would escape and live. Drogon was content to let the water have him as it had Viserion and Rhaegal so long as Jon survived,_ _ _ _

____ _ _

____As long as his rider lived the victory would belong to Drogon._ _ _ _

____ _ _

____The creature itself was foul beyond measure. The slime of it’s flesh in Drogon’s mouth was nauseating and the weight of it dragged the pair of them down into the cold darkness under the ice while Drogon fought to rend the creature apart._ _ _ _

____ _ _

____Drogon could feel it’s hooked suckers latching onto his body, tearing at him as it tried to free itself from his grip but the black dragon refused to let it go. Instead he held it tighter, locking his jaws and claws into its rotting, rubbery flesh and focusing on dragging it down and away from Jon to buy his rider enough time to escape._ _ _ _

____ _ _

____Drogon swiftly realized that he would pay the ultimate price for his choice. The creature was too strong and his fire was nearly useless underwater even if he dared to open his jaws to breath it out. Yet even as those slimy tentacles wrapped themselves around Drogon’s throat to strangle the life out of him him the black dragon did not regret his decision._ _ _ _

____Drogon knew that he was going to die —but as the light faded from view and the two of them sank together into the endless darkness of the winter sea all Drogon could feel was savage joy. He had saved Jon. Drogon could already feel his rider’s grief at his loss but even that could not dampen his resolve._ _ _ _

____ _ _

____Jon would live._ _ _ _

____ _ _

____It was enough._ _ _ _

____ _ _

____Drogon’s lungs ached as if they were filled with ice and he could feel his grip on the monster weakening as his vision began to gray at the edges —until abruptly the creature in his jaws went limp and lifeless in his grip. The unnatural magic that had powered it suddenly banished, leaving only putrid empty flesh behind in Drogon’s clutching talons and teeth._ _ _ _

____ _ _

____For a moment he was frozen in confusion—but the urgent need to breathe shook the black dragon free of the fog swiftly enough and with renewed vigor Drogon loosened his grip on the creature and began swimming desperately for the surface._ _ _ _

____ _ _

____His tail made a powerful rudder. Propelling him toward the light and when his head broke the surface and he hauled in a ragged, gasping breath of sweet air he was greeted with the sound of his name and the first thing he saw was Jon Snow running across the snow and ice toward the water’s edge._ _ _ _

____ _ _

____Running to him._ _ _ _

____ _ _

____Drogon exhaustedly clawed himself up and back onto dry land once more. Collapsing where he lay once he was free of the water. He could feel himself bleeding in more than one place and every muscle in his entire body ached—but he didn’t mind. How could he when Jon was there with his frantic hands and gentle voice bleeding concern into their link as the monster had bled ink into the seawater around them?_ _ _ _

____ _ _

____To Drogon the sweetest thing in all the world was the sensation of Jon Snow’s delicate human hands on the soft skin around his eye as the boy stroked him and the sweet sound his rider’s ragged voice telling him how brave he was._ _ _ _

____ _ _

____For this, Drogon would kill a thousand krakens._ _ _ _

____ _ _

____Although perhaps not today._ _ _ _

____ _ _

____ _ _

____“Is he alright?”_ _ _ _

____ _ _

____Drogon didn’t have the energy to open his eyes, but he didn’t need to in order to recognize the voice of his rider’s sibling. To soothe Arya’s worry Drogon forced himself to summon up the will to breathe out a careful gust of hot air at the girl. It was all he had the strength for at the moment, so it would have to serve._ _ _ _

____Moments later Drogon found himself surprised to hear the ragged break in Jon’s voice as he answered her._ _ _ _

____ _ _

____“Aye, he looks tired and shaken up and he’s hurt—-but I think he’ll be fine once he’s rested thanks to you and that bow of yours.”_ _ _ _

____ _ _

____That got Drogon’s attention, and so he determinedly forced one eye open to look at the two of them. Arya stood a short distance away from her brother, a longbow gripped in one white knuckled hand and a look of surprised pleasure on her face as Jon approached her and abruptly dragged her into a hug. The expression on her face over her brother’s shoulder was certainly something to see—and Drogon noted that her feet weren’t even touching the ground as Jon held her._ _ _ _

____ _ _

____Eventually the girl struggled free of Jon’s grip and gave her brother a shove and a glare —but Drogon recognized it for what it was. Fondness and prickly affection. It reminded him painfully of Viserion, who had often needled Drogon purely for the joy of it. It was how his sibling had displayed their affection. So it was with Arya too it seemed._ _ _ _

____ _ _

____“ My arrows weren’t working on the kraken—but they worked a treat on the icy little shit controlling it after you pointed him out for me. ” Arya replied fiercely. “We did it together.”_ _ _ _

____ _ _

____“We would have lost him without you. I would have lost him without you. ” Jon replied just as fiercely, and Drogon could feel the ache that the idea of his death created inside of Jon. Drogon was well aware that he was not Jon Snow’s choice of partner and the knowledge that if Rhaegal were still alive the dark haired man would have been hers preyed on the black dragon’s mind more than he’d care to admit—but it soothed something inside of Drogon to know that Jon would grieve his loss. That though the dark haired man had not chosen Drogon—if he were gone Jon would miss him._ _ _ _

____ _ _

____“He’s family. Giant, terrifying, fire-breathing family —but family none the less. I couldn’t very well let my baby cousin get eaten by a kraken could I?” Drogon could hear the shaky smile in Arya’s voice as she spoke and it filled him with quiet joy and pride_ _ _ _

____ _ _

____Arya had saved him. Arya and her little bow had saved him and by extension the eggs he carried within him. The future of Drogon’s species was now owed to Arya Stark and her keen eye and steady aim._ _ _ _

____ _ _

____Arya Stark had just named Drogon family, and while he knew the girl couldn’t truly know what that would mean just yet —-Drogon fully intended for her to find out in due course. First however, they needed to leave. Drogon was no longer willing to risk remaining where they were. Not for an instant longer. On the ground they were vulnerable. Only in the sky would they be safe—there was no time for rest. Not now._ _ _ _

____ _ _

____Drogon ignored the wide-eyed and concerned looks the two humans gave him as he took a deep breath and forced himself up, flexing his wings carefully to check the state of them before looking to Jon and sending his rider his urgent desire to leave. The force of it was strong enough to make the dark haired man wince and put a hand to his temple—but it got Drogon’s point across._ _ _ _

____ _ _

____“We have to go. Now. “ Jon said shortly, looking at Drogon warily—but perhaps the Ancestors were listening for once because miraculously Jon didn’t seem inclined to argue. Which was all to the good, since Drogon wasn’t in the mood to deal with any more Targaryen stubbornness._ _ _ _

____ _ _

____“Drogon doesn’t want to stay here anymore, it’s not up for debate. We’re going.”_ _ _ _

____ _ _

____Arya looked from Jon to Drogon and back again, and even Drogon could read the worry on her tiny face.” Are you sure that’s a good idea? He looks like he’s about to keel over any moment and he’s bleeding in more spots than I can count—“_ _ _ _

____ _ _

____Jon cut her off abruptly. “I know, Arya. I know. It doesn’t matter. He won’t stay. We’re going.”_ _ _ _

____ _ _

____“As well we should.” The red priest said firmly, as he and the wildling man had at last come to join them._ _ _ _

____ _ _

____Drogon did his best not to hiss at them because while Arya had his favor the two men most certainly did not. Drogon was tired and he was injured and having strangers around himself and his rider was the last thing Drogon desired —but he knew already that Jon would not leave without them._ _ _ _

____ _ _

____Drogon lowered his shoulder obligingly for Jon to mount first, followed by Arya and then the wildling man, who looked worriedly at Drogon’s teeth and scrambled up onto his back as quickly as he could. The priest came last, and aside from Jon he was the most sure of the four of them when it came to mounting a dragon, knowing exactly where to put his hands and feet in order to avoid annoying Drogon unnecessarily with his fumbling._ _ _ _

____ _ _

____Curious indeed. Drogon was resolved to consider the matter more at a later date. For now however, they needed to leave. After taking a moment to summon his strength Drogon carefully approached their supplies and picked them up delicately in one foot before launching himself back into the sky once more. Drogon’s aching wings bearing them away from the empty ruins of Hardhome._ _ _ _

____ _ _

____They were alive. They were together, and now at long last their journey had begun._ _ _ _


	23. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The House of Black and White

The flight across the Narrow Sea from Hardhome was the longest and most brutal journey Jon had ever taken. He spent the majority of it caught somewhere between terror and rage. Terror, for how close he’d come to losing Drogon to the kraken and fury at the fact that the entire incident had even happened at all. Jon railed at himself internally with every beat of Drogon’s weary wings. He should have known better, should have anticipated that there would have been someone left behind at Hardhome. It’s what he would have done after all. 

 

Jon knew now that he should never have sent Drogon so far away. It had been foolish. Shortsighted. It had been a mistake the cost of which had nearly been the life of the last living dragon. 

 

Jon was angry, angry at the Night King and his insatiable hunger for power and senseless destruction. Angry at the White Walkers, who served the Night King so willingly and left nothing but ruin and desolation in their wake. The only people Jon wasn’t angry with were the Wights. For them Jon had only pity. They alone have no choice in what they do. They’re guided by other hands, other minds. Wights are a tool—not an enemy and so they alone are spared Jon’s hatred and when he can he prays to the Old Gods that there’s nothing left of who they’d been still trapped in their ruined flesh.

 

Mostly however, Jon is angry at himself. At his failure to look far enough ahead to see the obvious. A small, cruel voice in the back of Jon’s mind that sounds very much like Lady Stark whispers to him that Sansa would have seen it. Robb would have seen it. He didn’t know if it was true or not —but in the end it didn’t really matter if the voice spoke truth or only lies. Jon’s confidence was in tatters regardless and he didn’t have the faintest idea what to do now that his plans had been upended so spectacularly. All Jon could do for the moment was cling guiltily to Drogon’s bloody flesh—each drop spilled a physical testament to Jon’s error in judgment— and brood bitterly on his mistakes.

 

His many, many mistakes.

 

 

Jon had never wanted to be a leader. He’d always been content to simply get things done as best he could and keep things running smoothly for other people. Jon was good at that, he always had been. Lady Catelyn had been so sure of Jon’s greed, of his hunger for power— but the terrible irony of it all was that she’d never needed to worry. Neither had Alliser Thorne or anybody else. 

 

Power was the last thing Jon Snow had ever wanted. 

 

From the time he was a boy Robb had always been the leader, the planner. The Heir. Jon happily standing behind him to support him and doing whatever was necessary to help his brother in whatever way he could. Jon had been happy in that role. Content, as much as any bastard could be until Lady Catelyn had driven him out and into the waiting arms of the Watch. 

 

Even that hadn’t changed Jon’s nature. After he’d joined the Night’s Watch he’d been equally content to serve as Lord Commander Mormont’s steward, gladly helping the older man with his duties and taking his orders. Carrying them out as best he could to serve the Watch and uphold the oaths he’d sworn. 

 

Jon’s reward for that faithful service had been knives in the dark. 

 

Again he’d been cut adrift and Sansa had been right there, waiting for him with open arms and cunning eyes and Jon had done his best to do for her what he would have done for Robb. He’d tried hard to be what Sansa needed him to be —and his reward had been to be once more thrust into a position of power he hadn’t wanted. 

 

Jon wasn’t a complete fool—no matter what anybody else might believe. He’d seen the bitterness in Sansa’s eyes when the Lords had named him King. How could he not? He understood it. It should have been her, she was a Stark. A trueborn Stark but because she’d been born a girl it was Jon the Lord’s had turned to. Jon they hailed as King. But what choice had Jon had in the matter? What could he have possibly done differently? They had to work together, and they couldn’t do that fragmented and fighting amongst themselves.

 

Jon had taken the mantle of King in the North only because the people demanded it of him …not because he’d wanted it for himself. Everything he had ever done had been in service to other people. Every choice he’d made, every sacrifice had been to serve those who looked to him for protection, for aid. They called and he answered. It was part of who Jon was, who he’d always been and who he knew he always would be. As intrinsic to what made him himself as his dark hair or his murky grey eyes and his long Stark face.

Jon had served Robb because he’d loved his brother and wanted to help him be the best leader he could be. He’d served the watch in order to serve his family and protect them from the shame of his existence—hoping to one day bring them enough honor to wash clean the stain of his bastardy. 

 

He’d served Dany, because he’d been certain that she wanted the same thing he always had; to serve others. Jon had believed in his heart that the Dragon Queen wanted to protect the people from those that would abuse them and do them harm in the name of their own greed and hunger for power. He’d trusted her to do as she’d promised she would and when she betrayed that oath and harmed those she’d sworn to defend Jon had killed the woman he loved with his own hands in order to prevent her from ever doing it again. 

 

Sacrifice, Duty, Justice. Those were the virtues Jon had always tried so very hard to live his life by. Yet no matter what he did, it never seemed to be enough.

 

Jon had never wanted to be in charge of anything yet somehow that’s exactly what tended to happen. No matter if he wanted it or not he’d have power thrust upon him in one way or another—and without fail it would eventually backfire on him in spectacular fashion. Now, what little confidence Jon had developed in his ability to lead lay in tatters on the icy ground at Hardhome. He’d tried, he’d tried and he’d failed again and Jon wasn’t sure that he still had the strength to get up and go fail again.

 

Beneath the insecurity that threatened to crush him under it’s terrible weight and the overwhelming sense of inadequacy that always plagued Jon lay fear. The terrible, grinding fear that because of Jon’s failure as a leader that their plan had now been discovered and all they’d done to keep their secret had all been for naught—and Jon knew that he had nobody to blame for it but himself. 

 

There was no way to be truly certain, not yet at any rate —and that meant that all Jon could do for the moment was hope that Arya’s arrow had been swift enough to prevent the Night King from seeing what was happening. Overshadowing all of that was an even more terribly fear —the creeping dread that although they’d miraculously managed to escape the kraken Drogon might yet die on the journey regardless. 

 

Jon could feel the black dragon’s weakness. It throbbed in the back of his own mind like a wound he couldn’t touch but could sense in every part of himself. Whatever it was that had happened to Drogon before he’d dropped out of the sky to save them all had done serious damage. Jon had felt it from the moment he’d climbed onto the dragon’s back; his hands failing at first to get a sure grip on Drogon’s spines—instead sliding on the slick film of blood that seemed to cover the dragon’s entire body. Jon wasn’t entirely certain how any of them had managed to keep their grip but he was only grateful that they had.

 

As they flew Drogon’s blood had slowly soaked its way through Jon’s clothing and everyone else’s as well, clinging clammily to their skin and itching fiercely as it dried. No matter where they touched Drogon or how careful they were their hands and clothes always came away soaked in dragonsblood. 

The stuff itself was dark, nearly black, and when Jon brought it to his nose it had an oddly sulfurous smell that faded slowly as it dried. The scent of was left behind once it had was oddly sweet, a pleasant smell that made something inside of Jon twist uneasily in response. 

Jon had used some of the precious water in his waterskin to rinse the patch of spine and scale directly beneath his hands clean in order to survey the extent of the damage Drogon had taken and once the blood was finally gone he’d realized to his horror that beneath it Drogon’s usually dark hide was abraded and raw—the skin left bleeding and painful. Scoured from deep black and scarlet to a ruddy sort of gray that made Jon’s skin crawl to look at it and a bloody crimson that was far brighter than it ever should have been.

Drogon had lost many layers of skin— and not just in one place. The flesh had been worn away over the black dragon’s entire body and it had chilled Jon’s blood to see the sheer magnitude of the damage. No matter how he fought the image—and he did fight it—Jon couldn’t help but think that Drogon looked as if he’d been flayed alive. 

 

Hard on the heels of that revelation had come another; and Jon’s stomach had nearly given up the ghost as he realized that if the thick scales along Drogon’s back were damaged so badly then the sensitive membranes of the dragon’s wings must have been a raw ruin as well. That wasn’t even counting the hundreds of gashes that the hooked suckers of the kraken had left behind all over Drogon’s already battered body. 

 

Yet they flew on regardless, Drogon stoically bearing them all away from danger without complaint. 

 

After Jon discovered the extent of Drogon’s wounds he tried desperately to force Drogon to land and rest and to allow him to tend the black dragon’s many wounds; but Drogon had refused. Refused so forcefully that the ferocity of his denial had made the bond between the two of the burn painfully with the force of the black dragon’s rejection. Jon hadn’t given up, though. Even with his ears still ringing from the force of Drogon’s ‘No’. 

 

Jon kept trying, hoping to convince the dragon to land on Skagos and at the very least and rest for a while but Drogon would have none of it. He ignored Jon as if he hadn’t spoken at all. Jon was no longer in control of the situation and he knew it. He was going where Drogon was taking him and that was that. They all were. Dany had been right, a dragon was not a slave. Or a pet. 

 

A dragon was a partner, and Jon had just been outvoted.

 

The worst part of it all for Jon was that he couldn’t really blame Drogon for refusing to listen to him. Jon’s last plan hadn’t turned out particularly well for anybody involved, had it? Drogon had been against it from the start; but he’d given in for Jon. It shamed him, knowing that Drogon now suffered for his mistake and so Jon gave up attempting to convince the black dragon to land. On they flew—on and on until not only Jon but all the others as well could feel Drogon’s wings begin trembling from the strain of holding them aloft. It was a fine tremor at first but it escalated into a shake that was gradually accompanied by a quiet, near constant keening cry of pain. The terrible sound of Drogon’s suffering would haunt Jon’s dreams for the rest of his days.

 

It was a very long night. All of them clinging to one another for both comfort and warmth; each fearing that the next flap of the black dragon’s wings would be the last and that they’d tumble from the sky and down into the water and that the Narrow Sea would swallow them up as if they’d never existed at all. 

 

Hope came at dawn. As the sun slowly crept into the early morning sky Jon saw a glint in the distance and was immediately filled with an overwhelming sense of relief. Land, at long last. 

 

“It’s Braavos!” Arya cried out from behind him, leaning over Jon’s shoulder to peer out across the water as they drew closer to the shoreline. Jon could feel the tickle of her dark hair against his cheek as the wind caught at it and the smile on her face was fierce and bright. 

“Are you sure?” Jon asked, unable to believe that they’d come so far in a day and a night.

 

The look of irritation on Arya’s face at Jon’s question would have been amusing at any other time. “Of course I’m sure, idiot. I lived there. I’d know the Titan anywhere. So would you if you’d ever managed to stay awake during Maester Luwin’s Essosi history lessons. That’s Braavos.“ 

 

They were in Braavos. Jon could barely believe that it was possible. They’d completed in a day and a night a journey that should by all rights have taken weeks. No wonder the Valyrians had ruled the world, Jon realized with growing awe. On dragonback they could travel a thousand miles in a day and a night. A distance that made Jon’s head spin with its magnitude.

 

“Tell Drogon to land where I say!” Arya said urgently as she leaned further around Jon’s bulk to look at the ground below them, narrow eyed and searching for something. Eventually she pointed to a small island a bit further away from all the others. 

 

“There! That one there!” Arya said, pointing it out to Jon, a tiny pale dot in the bright blue sea.

 

“ There’s room there for him on that little island to the east of the city. It’s isolated too—or at least as isolated as it gets in Braavos at any rate.“ before Jon could say anything back in response Drogon immediately made it clear that he was already listening to Arya by banking sharply to the east without Jon needing to say a single word.

 

“Tell him yourself.” Jon said wryly as they began to descend. “He’s listening to you more than he is me at the moment.” 

 

As they drew closer to the ground Jon saw that the island Arya had led them to was an empty one. The barren landscape dominated by a single massive building crafted of white stone. The island itself was more than large enough to allow Drogon to land easily and Jon and the rest clung onto his back for dear life as the dragon made his final decent. It was a rough landing, not quite so rough as Jon’s last with Rhaegal but nearly enough to send them all crashing to the ground regardless; having none of Drogon’s usual precision and grace.

 

Unfortunately Jon’s luck had run out at last, because the moment the black dragon managed to set their supplies safely aside and put all his limbs on the ground he collapsed beneath them like a marionette with it’s strings cut to lay limp and lifeless on the sand.

 

The sudden motion of it sent Jon rolling over the dragon’s shoulder, unable to get a grip on the way down to break his fall and crashing hard onto the ground. He landed badly, the impact driving the air from his lungs and rendering him breathless for a horrifying moment before he eventually managed to draw in another whooping gasp of air to fill his aching lungs. From the way his shoulder ached, Jon was certain that if he hadn’t broken it he’d certainly managed to dislocate it. Badly. 

The others hurriedly scrambled down from Drogon’s back, but Jon paid them no mind as he forced himself up off the ground, ignoring his own pain as he staggered immediately to where Drogon’s massive head lay and pressed one shaking, blood stained hand to the raw skin by the dragon's nostrils—and some of Jon’s terror drained out of him like water from a sieve as he felt Drogon’s hot breath gusting against his skin as he exhaled. Jon very nearly wept in relief.

 

Drogon was alive. Sorely hurt, exhausted beyond endurance and unconscious—but he was alive and unlikely to die any time soon. The relief that knowledge brought was immense. Drogon wasn’t dying, the black dragon was simply spent. Drogon had pushed himself beyond endurance in order to fly them all to safety and now he was paying the price for his efforts. 

 

Drogon would need rest and food and time to heal but Jon knew that the black dragon would be well again soon enough if as he got what he needed. He WOULD get what he needed. Jon was resolved to make certain of it— regardless of what he’d need to do to ensure it. As if sensing Jon’s determination Arya joined him moments later and Jon wasn’t surprised to see the concern in her eyes as she stared at Drogon’s unconscious form. 

 

“He saved us.” Arya murmured quietly, reaching out to carefully lay her hand on one spiky horn near the rise of the sleeping dragons cheek. She stroked it carefully; as if trying not to wake him.”All night I was afraid he was going to die. That we all were.” 

 

Jon shuddered and shut his eyes and when he opened them again his voice was small and soft when he answered her, putting a hand on her skinny shoulder and admitting the fear that had plagued him through the seemingly endless night, fed by Drogon’s endless cries of pain. “So did I for a while.” he said quietly. 

 

“ He’ll be alright though—once he’s rested and had a chance to heal up a bit. I can feel it. He’s just exhausted for now. He’ll be hungry when he wakes up, though.“ 

 

A look of concern and uncertainty flashed across Arya’s face before she looked up at Jon warily and asked “How hungry?” 

 

 

“Very.” Jon said grimly.

 

Aryas’s response to Jon’s reply was as succinct as it was heartfelt.

 

“ Shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We need to work on poor Jon’s self-esteem. -_- As always, comments are love and feed the dragon.


	24. Arya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sanctuary

The House of Black and White smells exactly as Arya remembered. The still air is heavy with the coppery bitterness of stale blood and beneath it something she could only ever manage to describe as ‘green’. The pool is where it’s always been, where Arya imagines it always will be. As peaceful and eternal as the death its dark waters bring. 

 

Arya approaches it, putting one foot in front of the other and counting the steps by habit. There are thirty-two. Another forty to the hidden door that leads to the deeper chambers of the temple. Fifteen to the murder hole she knows is hidden in the wall and the priest that waits there, watching every move she makes. A swift death to any who dare intrude unwelcome on the peace of the House of Black and White and their service to the Many-Faced God. 

 

As she looks down into the murky water Arya notes that just like the rest of the temple, the pool remains as it had been in her memories. Dark and fathomless; as still and as smooth as glass. Arya can see her own reflection there as clearly as if it were her mother’s long-ago shattered looking glass. It had burned with Winterfell along with the last vestiges of Arya’s childhood and what little remained of the girl she’d once been. Arya is surprised to find that she doesn’t grieve the loss. 

 

She studies her own reflection in the still water, trying to evaluate what she sees there as if the girl looking back at her isn’t herself. It’s harder than Arya imagined it would be, she finds it difficult to separate herself from her own perceptions of her appearance—but eventually she does manage it and at last, she can look at the girl in the abstract—forcing herself into cold impartiality.

A skinny, long-faced girl looks back at her solemnly and Arya can read the weariness in her dark grey eyes and the fear hiding in the unhappy curve of her thin lips all too clearly. She looks tired, worn thin by her burdens. Her face might be that youthful maiden— but her eyes are those of a withered crone; jaded and ready to meet the end of her days. 

 

The girl is no beauty, nor ever will be—her face is too long for that and her features are far too distinct but to Arya’s surprise she finds that she isn’t ugly either. The girl in the water is exceptionally ordinary, and her plainness pleases Arya more than beauty ever could. Beauty is a weapon—but to be ordinary is both shield and sword at once in the right hands.

 

The clarity of the reflection also means that Arya sees Jaqen H’ghar instantly when he, at last, appears behind her. Melting into being over her shoulder as if he’d been vomited forth from the shadows like a pale ghost. 

Their eyes meet in the reflection on the water’s surface for a brief moment Arya wonders idly if the older man will try to kill her. It’s not out of the realm of possibility, Arya had known that from the moment she chose to direct Drogon to the island—but it was a risk she’d been prepared to take regardless. She can think of more than a few reasons for him to do so as well. Not least of all being as punishment for Arya daring to use the Faces for her own ends instead of in service to the Many-Faced God. 

 

As Arya takes in the familiar planes of the Lorathi’s face she can’t help but hope that he doesn’t —because she really would hate to be forced to kill him. Arya cared for Jaqen. She respected him greatly and counted him amongst the precious few people she considered friends but she would kill him without hesitation if he became a threat to either her family or their mission. 

Almost as if he could somehow sense the dark direction of her thoughts Arya watched as the Lorathi assassin’s reflection in the water smiled at her and all Arya could read in his eyes was pleasure and pride. Arya finally allows herself to relax a little. Some of the tension she’d carried with her from the moment she’d crossed the threshold of the temple at last bleeding out of her body. Jaqen might kill her one day—but it wouldn’t be today. 

 

The older man stands so close behind her that Arya can feel his breath on the shell of her ear when he speaks. His voice every bit as low and smoothly captivating as it was in her memories of him. “A man wonders what it is that brings Arya Stark once more to the House of Black and White.” 

 

Jaqen’s tone is neutral enough--but Arya can sense his genuine confusion regardless. They know one another too well by now for deception to come easily between them. 

 

“A dragon,” she says before she can think better of it. Arya can’t help but smirk when she reads the nearly imperceptible flicker of amusement in her former Master’s eyes before he manages to smother it again beneath his training.

 

“A man is well aware—“ Jaqen replies, his tone as dry as the Red Wastes. “Dragons do tend to be somewhat difficult to miss.”

 

Arya debates continuing to needle him, she’d missed their word games. The familiar dance of saying and not-saying that was so particular to their relationship with one another. Ultimately she decides against it. Now isn’t the time for games, no matter how entertaining the playmate. Truth then, or at least as much of it as she could give for now. 

 

“It was the only place I could think of where we could potentially find shelter, ” Arya explained. ”Even if you won’t help us I was relatively certain you wouldn’t oppose us either. Ambivalence is easier to manage than enmity.” 

 

“Quite the gamble,” Jaqen says mildly. The assassin holds Arya’s gaze in the water and she can see a familiar empty darkness looking back at her from his eyes. The endless and brutal practicality of a Faceless Man. Arya both loves it and hates it —she'd seen its match it in her own eyes often enough. 

 

“Not really. We both serve the Many-Faced God. In different ways, perhaps—but we serve none the less. “ Arya watches acknowledgment and eventually acceptance flicker across her old mentor’s face with a grim sort of satisfaction. Once upon a time, Arya wouldn't have had the confidence to make that claim. Those days are gone, and Arya's reluctance to admit what she is went with them.

 

 

“ There’s a war coming.” the vulnerability Arya sees in her own expression in the water makes something inside her cringe at the very sight of it but the flash of naked surprise on Jaqen’s face when he sees it as well is even worse. This is a new step in their dance, and Jaqen knows it no better than Arya herself. 

 

“Wars do not concern the House of Black and White, Arya Stark. You know this.” Jaqen says, and though his expression is cold Arya can hear the faint thread of regret in his voice. He'd help her if he could, were his own decision to make and that knowledge makes the rest easier to bear.

 

“This war does. This war concerns all of us, the Many-Faced God included.” Arya’s reply jars Jaquen momentarily out of his training. His eyebrows climbing towards his hairline in pure shock. 

 

“ This is a war that none of us have the option to avoid. A war so terrible that if it’s allowed to progress into open conflict it will mean the end of everything. Not just one nation, Jaquen. Every every living thing in all the world will die if something isn’t done now to stop it from happening.” 

 

The longer Arya speaks the more concern she sees creeping into the Lorathi man’s face. Jaqen knows her. Perhaps better than anybody else alive and he knows she isn’t lying. If Arya could have she would have wept with relief, but for now, she needs to say what needs to be said to make their case as best she can. Jaquen may well believe her, but as of yet Arya hasn’t given him a reason to aid them. He’s listening, however, and Arya knows that will have to be enough, and so she presses onward. 

 

“ What happens to He of Many-Faces when everything is already dead and the cycle of life and death is broken?” Arya asks, and she barely represses a shudder when she feels the temperature around the two of them drop as the room swells with a sense of presence that hadn’t been there before. Both of them know what it means, and Arya can see by the look in Jaqen's eyes that it fills them both with the same sense of reverence. He of Many-Faces is listening.

Arya turns, looking up into Jaqen's wide-eyed face. There is only perhaps a hand-span’s distance between the two of them now and Arya can see their breath fogging in the sudden chill of the room. “ Without life, there can be no death and when all life is gone so too is death and what remains will be nothingness. An empty forever of nothing. That’s why we’re here and if you turn us away now—the only hope the world has of surviving what’s coming will go with us.”

 

Jaqen is silent. Arya can see him struggling with his own emotions and while his conflict pains her, it doesn't move her. She’s put him in an impossible position and she knows it —but there’s nothing she can do about it now. They need him. The world needs him and in the face of that need Arya can’t afford delicacy. In the end, Arya strongly suspects that it’s the cold that convinces him, the icy touch of Death lending her words a weight they may otherwise have lacked. 

 

Jaqen nods; looking down at Arya with a troubled expression on his face. “ A man believes you Arya Stark, but he wonders what service the House of Black and White could possibly offer that would be of use. You are without question the most gifted student that a man has ever trained—there is little that a man can do that a girl could not just as easily do herself.” 

 

“There’s one thing you can do that I can’t and that’s exactly what I need from you. From the Many-Faced God.” Arya’s voice is soft but fierce and her dark eyes gleam brightly in the dim light of the room as she looks up at the assassin. Willing him to hear the words she doesn’t say along with the ones that she does. 

 

“You’re the only one who can offer us sanctuary, Jaqen. My friends and I need a place to rest. We need to sleep and eat and heal. If you saw us land then you know why. Our dragon is hurt and he needs time to recover. Until he does—we’re trapped here. All of us, and even a dragon is vulnerable on the ground.” Understanding is dawning in the Lorathi’s eyes the longer he listens.

 

Arya cautiously raises one hand and lays it over the taller man’s heart as she holds his gaze with her own. She tries to ignore the way it makes something low in her belly twist and throb. Gendry was the first boy Arya ever wanted—but Jaqen H’ghar was the man that haunted her dreams. Tormenting her with all the things she knew she couldn’t have and waking her sweating and aching in the dark more often than she cared to remember. 

 

”You’ve always been there when I needed you Jaqen, always and I need you now more than I’ve ever needed anything before in my life. ” 

 

Jaqen doesn't move beneath Arya’s hand--he barely seems to breathe as he looks down at her and she can feel the hammering beat of his heart under her fingers even through the thickness of his robes. His eyes, however, burn with an emotion Arya can't name, but which nonetheless sends a spike of vicious heat through her body. 

 

Her voice drops into a whisper but Arya’s words are still unnaturally loud in the thickly oppressive stillness of the room. ” No one in Bravos would dare attempt to attack us if we were under the protection of the Many-Faced God and those that serve him. The House of Black and White is sacrosanct. This is the only place in all of Essos that we can be safe. “ 

 

She has him. Arya can see it in the older man’s eyes. He’ll help them. Whatever they need Jaqen will help them get it if he can. ”There is only one God and His name is Death---and what do we say to death, Jaqen H’ghar?” Arya’s voice is more gentle than it has ever been before and the Lorathi assassin’s eyes glitter like knives in the dark and his smile is as sharp as a sickle-blade as he lifts one callused hand to touch her cheek; tracing the new scar there as he whispers his answer. 

 

”Not today,” he says, and Arya’s battered heart aches with relief as her long held suspicion is finally confirmed. It had been Jaqen that put a wooden sword in her hand for the first time and it had been he that taught her the first steps of the Dance. Jaqen had given her the gift that allowed her to survive and thrive in a world that would otherwise have consumed her. Again and again, he’d saved her, and Arya hadn’t seen it until she was halfway across the Narrow Sea. No wonder Meryn Trant had been so confused while she was killing him. Arya had been avenging a man who wasn't dead. 

 

“Feed us, shelter us and help us tend our wounds and maybe—if we’re very lucky—the world won’t end.” 

 

“A man has many questions that yet need answering, Arya Stark—but the House of Black and White is with you. At least for now. Go and bring in your companions. They’ll be given food and safe harbor. You will be responsible for them while they are here. Do you understand?” Arya nods, the moment is broken between them and once the Lorathi has assured himself of Arya’s acceptance he nods in return and spins on his heel and departs—heading toward a part of the temple that Arya herself has never been in. She might have explanations to make, but she also knows that so does Jaqen and Arya is also well aware that not everyone in the temple will be pleased with Jaqen's decision to aid them. Endorsed by He of Many-Faces or not.

 

She stands alone for a moment, gathering her wits for what comes next. Explaining things to Jon—Arya hopes that her brother will take it better than she suspects he will but she won’t be holding her breath for it. This is a part of her life that she hasn’t shared in any detail with anybody. Not even Jon, and for good reason. The House of Black and White is the place that made Arya what she is— and having Jon there at all feels wrong in a way nothing else ever has before—but here is where they need to be and so Arya has no choice in the matter. 

 

None of them do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting closer and closer to Valyria, and I hope everybody enjoys what I have planned. Feel free to comment with things you'd like to see while we're there. <3


	25. Ghost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All is not lost! Let's spend a little time with the goodest of good boys.

Snow. An endless winter-white blanket of it covered the empty ground around Winterfell. Nothing moved there in the no-man’s land between the outer walls and the forest. It was utterly barren—and for good reason. The dead may have been vanquished but the castle folk and those who’d once called Wintertown home hadn’t forgotten the horrors of the Long Night. 

Not even a little. 

 

For them the night was still dark and full of terrors, and so smallfolk and nobility alike cowered behind Winterfell’s sturdy, newly rebuilt walls and set sentries on the battlements entirely of their own accord. Men whose task was to watch the empty stretch of land around the castle for even the faintest signs of movement. 

 

The creeping dread that spurred the decision was one that none spoke of in words but which all who had survived the final battle carried inside their hearts. It rose up in the night to sink cold fingers into their souls and set their hearts to clattering like old bones. It was the fear of cold hands and blue eyes in the dark. The hollow corpses of those they loved rising up again, filled with only endless hunger and eternal hatred. 

 

But there had been no sign of life in what the castle folk had begun to call the Bloody Field for weeks and even the deepest terror can wane in time—-and so the sentries had gradually grown more lax in their attention to their duties.

 

It was why they missed the pale figure that detached itself from the shadows at the edge of the forest and soundlessly made it’s way across the moonlit snow. 

 

Ghost had learned much in his time beyond the Wall. Learned what it truly meant to be a direwolf, how to become part of the snow and to move atop it in fleet footed stillness to catch his prey, how to read the faintest of signs and follow the weakest of scents. He was now nearly as ephemeral and impossible to catch as his namesake. 

 

His long, webbed, and well furred toes spread themselves wide to distribute his weight more evenly upon the snow’s surface. Keeping him from breaking through the frost-crust and floundering as men and other beasts did. An ordinary wolf would sink, but a direwolf was as fleet on snow and ice as it was on hard ground. 

 

Where he passed his paw prints were as ghostly as his name—and as the white direwolf slipped into the well hidden drain that Jon had shown him as a cub he found himself grateful that he was no longer entirely as others of his kind were. 

 

Were he an ordinary direwolf he wouldn’t have known how to press the hidden lever built into the ancient stone with his snout, or how to brace his furry shoulder against a particular section of stone to force it to turn at the right moment to let him pass behind the castle walls. 

 

Ghost was not ordinary and so he he passed where others could not —-and if he could have smiled as humans did he might have as he heard the stone grinding softly against itself. He watched the heavy stone of the the passage door swing open and quietly slipped past the hidden entrance and into the inner bailey. The hidden door closed on its own behind him without a sound and after a moment of waiting Ghost was satisfied that no one had noticed his arrival. He couldn’t help but wish that Jon were with him, however. Everything would be better if they were together. 

 

Jon was far away, however— his presence only a faintly warm echo in Ghost’s mind for the moment. Yet they weren’t truly apart. Not really. They never could be, because where Jon went, so too did Ghost. The great lizard could not change what lay between the two of them any more than time or distance could. Jon and Ghost were one creature. Neither no longer truly whole without the other. 

 

Only death would sunder their bond—and even then Ghost would follow Jon wherever he went. Be it sky or snow, forest or sea. Life or death. 

 

Ghost would follow. 

 

Always. 

 

 

For the moment however he had a task to attend to, one that was just as important as the one that had called Jon away and across the sea. 

 

Ghost made his way along the inner wall, flitting from one shadow to the next on silent feet. The direwolf found himself thinking of their last moments together. Of the urgency in Jon’s voice and the fear in his sad, dark eyes as they had parted.

 

Ghost turns the memory over in his mind as he crept through the castle grounds, worrying at it’s edges like an old bone as he made his way slowly into the castle itself. 

 

“ Ghost.” Jon’s deep voice is soft and sad, but his hands are warm as they stroke what remains of Ghost’s mangled left ear. “ I need your help, boy.” 

 

Ghost knows already that he will not like what Jon asks of him, he can see it in his eyes —but he listens none the less as his human speaks. 

 

“I need your eyes, old friend.” Jon says, fingers sinking deep into Ghost’s white fur and holding on. “ I need your ears. The Three-eyed Raven has ten thousand—but I have only four, and so I must send you to Winterfell.” Ghost’s first thought is one of baffled confusion and no small amount of hurt. Again? Ghost doesn’t know if his human’s next words come from Jon reading his confusion or echo of his unhappiness in the bond between them.

 

“ I don’t want to send you as much as you don’t want to go, but I need you to stay close to Sansa, Ghost.”

 

There is fear in Jon’s eyes as he speaks, fear and regret and it makes Ghost’s belly cramp with unease to see it, and he can’t quite smother a whine of displeasure. 

 

“ The Three-eyed Raven has his hooks in her— and that means that once I’m gone I can’t trust her at my back. I want to, I do, but I can’t. Not now. Not again.” 

Jon’s pain is a tangible thing, and although Ghost doesn’t want to do what Jon now asks of him, he already knows that he will. As always. He will go where Jon sends him, because it is what his human needs.“I want you to listen to everything she says, watch everything she does... and then every night that I can I’ll come to you while you sleep and you can show me what’s happened during the day. Bran can’t use you, Arli says it’s because you were mine first —but he’ll be able to use other creatures to get to her. He’s too far away to use people but his ravens are everywhere. He knows something is happening.” Jon says grimly. 

 

“ I can feel it— I think he suspects that we might be moving against him but I don’t think he knows exactly what I’ve got planned and that will have to be enough.” 

“As long as he’s in the South he’s weaker than he was when he was here. Arli says he’s spread thin now and that his power fades the further from its source that he goes. “

Jon’s hands are so gentle as they stroke the sides of Ghost's jowls, his fingers digging deep into the fur there and his voice is soft as he pulls Ghost into a hug and buries his face in the thick ruff of fur at his neck. Ghost can feel the hitch in his human’s breath and smell the salt of his tears. He whines, and does his best to comfort Jon—pressing into his embrace even when it feels like his bones creak with how hard Jon holds him. 

 

“I don’t want to leave you again, boy—but I don’t have a choice. “ Jon rasps, and Ghost doesn’t know why the silly boy is apologizing. When has he ever not been what Jon needs him to be? When has he ever failed him? 

 

Jon pulls back and Ghost can’t help but gratified to see that at least Jon is as upset about the situation as he is. It’s a petty thing to feel, but Ghost doesn’t care. He is only glad to know that the love he has for his human is returned in equal measure. 

 

Jon’s voice is low and tense when he speaks again. “If at any point you feel as if you’re in danger I want to you to run. Get out of Winterfell as fast as you can. Nothing you could ever tell me is worth your life. Do you understand? “ The intensity in Jon’s eyes as he speaks is daunting, even for Ghost. 

 

“If you think even for a moment that Sansa might lock you up or that she mistrusts you. Go. Don’t hesitate even for a moment.” Jon’s hands are so careful as they stroke Ghost’s fur and the direwolf can smell Jon’s fear. Jon has always feared Ghosts death more than he’d ever feared his own. Ghost licks Jon to comfort him and tastes the salt of the tears there on his beard-rough cheek.

 

There is nothing in all the world that Ghost loves more than his strange human pup with his soft, warm hands. Ghost loved him without reservation from the moment Jon lifted him by the scruff of his neck from his mother’s cold body and looked into his eyes. He doesn’t know why Jon believes he must explain himself. It is a human thing and Ghost is not human. Ghost is a direwolf— and he will always do what Jon asks of him. 

 

Jon continues to speak and Ghost listens patiently but the pain in his human’s scent has eased and some of the bitter tang of Jon’s fear is fading. 

 

 

“ Once you’re out go back to Castle Black and wait for me there where it’s safe—but while you’re at Winterfell I need you to be careful. “ Jon uses the bond now, doing his best to reinforce the urgency of what he was saying. “

 

“ Never ever take any food that Sansa or anyone else in Winterfell offers you. Never drink any water they give you. No matter how thirsty or hungry you get.” 

 

Jon’s intensity forces a whine of placation out of Ghost. “Never, do you understand? “ 

 

Ghost doesn’t understand, not entirely, but he can hear the urgency in Jon’s voice and feel his fear through their link so he will obey regardless. Jon understands, and that is enough for Ghost. 

 

“Drink from different places as often as you can. Never the same one twice in a row. Try and do it unseen as well.” 

The way Jon speaks—it’s becoming clear to Ghost that Sansa is now an enemy. He doesn’t know when it happened, can’t pinpoint the exact moment she’d gone from pack to problem but he accepts it none the less. It might have been different if Ghost’s eldest sister were still alive…but Lady is long dead, her bones are bleached white with time and her flesh was long ago food for crows —and Ghost knows that Sansa has precious little of the Wolfsblood in her without Lady at her side to strengthen it.

 

She is no longer Pack.

Ghost licks Jon’s face again in answer and whines softly in agreement. He will watch Sansa for Jon, he will listen and he will see and he will kill any eye that the Raven sends to spy on them that he can. Jon can trust Ghost to do what must be done. 

 

They are pack. Now and always. 

 

Ghost stills when Jon suddenly takes his head in both hands and forces him to look directly into his eyes. This is a thing that Jon has never done before, and the expression on the dark haired man’s face makes something inside of Ghost go cold and fearful. It is iron, that look. It is death he sees on Jon’s face. Pitiless, implacable resolve—as cold and hard as the ice of the wall and just as enduring.

 

“Listen to me very carefully, old friend. “ Jon says, his voice rough with an emotion Ghost can’t quite name. 

 

“There may come a time that Sansa goes too far. A time when she does something or plans to do something that I can’t allow and if that happens, or if she tries to hurt you or the people of Winterfell—you must kill her.” Of all the things Ghost had imagined Jon might say, that had never been one of them. Lost in shock he almost misses the dark haired man’s next words. 

 

"Do it quickly and as kindly as you can, then flee. Sansa is too dangerous to leave at our backs as a pawn for the Raven to use. I can’t think like her, Ghost. She’s spent too long with Baelish and Queen Cersei. She’s like them, now, and I can’t fight a war on two fronts. Not anymore. “

 

Ghost blinks at Jon, he feels the pain beneath the dark haired man’s resolve through the bond between them and he knows that this is a thing that Jon does not truly wish to do.

 

But he will if he must.

Sansa may no longer be pack, but Jon still cares for her. He still loves her. Perhaps he always will but none of that that matters now because Jon will see Sansa Stark dead none the less if she crosses him again. He will not allow her to threaten their pack. 

 

Ghost has never been prouder of Jon than he is in that moment as he offers up a low growl of agreement. 

 

If Sansa turns on them, she will die. Ghost will be as silent and as swift as his namesake and Sansa’s life will end before she ever realizes she’s in danger. Ghost would die for Jon, killing for him is no sacrifice at all. 

 

Sansa is no longer Pack. 

 

Ghost will not mourn her death. 

 

Ghost moves from shadow to shadow between the hastily constructed buildings that now house the people of Wintertown. The hour is late but there are still people out and about —moving unseen is a challenge but it is one Ghost is more than capable of meeting. 

 

There’s a tense moment when a child comes out of one of the newly built houses to visit the public privy and Ghost is forced to freeze in place to wait for the boy to either see him, or make his way to the latrine and shut the door. 

 

The child does not see him, and the moment that door shuts Ghost is moving again. The rest of the journey passes smoothly and Ghost makes it into the keep. There is a smell there that he has never encountered before, one that makes something inside of him twist uneasily. Familiar but not. he cannot place it —and so he forces it from his mind. He will deal with it when it became necessary. A wise wolf did not borrow trouble. 

 

Ghost eventually makes it all the way to Sansa Stark’s chambers. He announces his presence by scratching at her door with one paw and abruptly finds himself taken back when a cacophony of barking erupts from inside. Ghost takes an abrupt and unintentional step back, hackles rising as he at last places the scent that had eluded him. 

 

Hounds. Those are dogs that he smells. The same dogs that had once been caged beneath the castle. 

 

There is little that Ghost fears that does not have blue eyes, but these hounds...these hounds he fears. He remembers their size and the sharpness of their teeth. He is a direwolf, but he is alone and they are many. Even an eagle can be felled by ants if there are enough of them. The lone wolf dies. Only the pack survives, and Ghost is very much alone. He debates running, fleeing back to Castle Black where there is familiarity and safety. 

 

What keeps Ghost in place as the door opens is the desperation that he’d seen in Jon’s dark eyes. Jon needs him. Jon asked this of him. Ghost will face a thousand hounds for Jon, if he must. 

 

Sansa Stark now stands in the doorway, staring at Ghost with surprise written plainly on her pale face. Surprise fades to joy however and she flings herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face in his fur as she babbles words that Ghost gives little mind to. 

 

His eyes are on what’s in her chambers. There are eight of them. Eight dark coated war-dogs that watch him with suspicious eyes and no small amount of hunger and as Ghost watches one of them lick it’s heavy jowls he realizes with grim resignation that that his task has just become considerably more difficult.


	26. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay worldbuilding! Okay folks, I need to take a poll. Whose POV would you guys most like to see next? If there's anything you're particularly interested in seeing leave me a comment in the comments section :)

As Jon hits the water for what feels like the hundredth time he finds himself thinking wistfully of the Wall and the days before he’d ever met dragons or red priests or Faceless men. he lingers beneath the surface for a few moments just to watch the way the light filters down through the water but eventually the need to breathe drives him upward and as his face breaks the surface of the water he begins swimming for the dock where Arli stands like a stone faced, red clad statue. 

 

Jon spits seawater as he hauls himself up onto the pier and he finds himself glaring at the Red Priest who looks no more impressed by Jon’s temper now than he had been the last dozen times Jon made the long swim back to the dock. Above them Drogon gives a keening cry that the Jon knows through their link is a rather sheepish apology. Jon isn’t certain why the black dragon thinks it’s his fault however—especially considering the fact that it was Jon who’d lost his grip.“Tell me what you did wrong that time.” Arli says, and his tone is so infuriatingly even and placid that it makes Jon want to throttle the man. There were times that Jon liked the older man and there were times that he didn’t —-and unfortunately for the red priest this was one of the latter times. 

 

Somehow Jon managed to restrain himself from saying what he was thinking, however and instead he only sighed and wrung some of the seawater from his ever-lengthening dark hair. If Jon sounded sullen in his reply, well, after as many times as he’d ended up arse over kettle in the bay over the last few hours if anyone was entitled to a bit of sullenness- it was him.

 

“Same thing as last time.” he grumbled, looking away to avoid the judgment he feared to find in Arli’s calm golden eyes. 

 

“This is a waste of time, Priest!” Jon found himself adding, and even he could hear the bitterness and frustration dripping from his voice. Unfortunately there was nothing Jon could do about it at the moment —even if he wanted to. 

 

Which he didn’t, in point of fact. 

 

Jon’s whole body hurt and he was weary to the bone. He was at the end of his ability to simply endure. They’d been training since the first light of dawn, Arli on the pier and Jon on dragonback and every single time Jon had attempted any of the more complex flying maneuvers that Arli had shown him he’d ended up back in the water the moment Drogon began to roll beneath him unexpectedly or pick up any real speed. 

 

Over and over and over again Jon had tumbled from Drogon’s back and down into the water and although falling into the sea wasn’t lethal—-hitting the water still set Jon’s ears to ringing and made his entire body ache. Jon was well and truly sick of falling and his body felt as if it had become one giant bruise.

 

 

“I rode Rhaegal well enough to fight the Night King in the air at Winterfell, didn’t I?” Jon growled at the priest in frustration.

 

Arli was far from impressed with Jon’s outburst. It was clear as day from the way the priest’s expression darkened and Jon watched Arli’s thin lipped mouth go even thinner as the priest looked down at him, disapproval and irritation warring with understanding in his golden eyes. 

Arli said nothing for a time—and eventually Jon found himself looking away. Arli’s eyes saw too much. Not even Lady Melisandre had made Jon feel so naked under her gaze. Ultimately it was Arli who gave in and broke the heavy silence between them. 

 

“You were lucky at Winterfell, boy—” he said quietly. 

 

“ — luckier than you will ever know. You and Queen Daenerys both.” Arli added, and Jon turned his eyes back to Arli n surprise and confusion. The man wasn’t looking at him, instead those uncanny eyes of his were fixed on the horizon as if he were looking at something Jon himself couldn’t see. 

 

“ Neither of you had the first idea of what you were doing on dragonback. It’s honestly a miracle the pair of you managed not to kill yourselves before now.” the priest said bluntly.

 

Jon hated the way Arli spoke to him somtimes. The condescension that he so often found in the older man’s golden gaze and the strange sense of ageless weight Arli radiated when he forgot himself. Jon didn’t like to admit it but it made him feel small in comparison. It wasn’t ’t a sensation he enjoyed but he also knew that Arli wasn’t doing it intentionally. 

 

Worst of all, Jon couldn’t deny that the other man was right. Jon _didn’t_ know what he was doing. Neither of them had. How could they? Dragons had been nothing but fading legends since long before either his or Dany's birth. 

 

“It isn’t your fault, of course.” Arli continued. 

 

“ You had no one to teach you, no one to give you the tools you need to keep yourself safe in the air—-but now you MUST learn, Jon. ” Arli said fiercely. Those golden eyes fixed themselves on Jon’s own dark ones and for a moment Jon forgot how to breathe. 

 

“ You must learn all that I can teach you or you will die in Valyria, my boy. You will fight, of course. You will give all you have—but it will not avail you. If you give up on learning what I am trying to teach you will try and you will fail and then you will die.” the certainty in the red priest’s voice stole the air from Jon’s lungs. 

 

 

“ —-and if that happens you will drag the rest of the world down into your grave with you.”   
It was the resignation in Arli’s voice as he spoke that forced Jon’s fury away. It let him leash his rage once more and shove it deep down into his belly where it might never see the light of day again much the same as he had done all those years ago when Lady Stark was being particularly vicious and he’d had no recourse but to endure her cruelty and spite in solemn silence. 

 

Jon did not like what Arli was saying but the fact of the matter was that just because Jon didn’t like hearing it didn’t make the priest’s words any less true—and the day Jon stopped hearing truth because he didn’t like the sound of it would be the day he was no longer fit to lead himself much less anybody else. 

 

“Aye.” he forced out from between clenched teeth. It was not a gracious acknloedgment but it was all that Jon could give for the moment. 

 

 

The two of them stood silently together in the late afternoon Braavosi sun watching Drogon drift lazily through the sky before a tickle in Jon’s mind made him break the moment. 

 

“ Drogon wants to go hunt porpoise.” 

 

Arli made a soft noise of acknoledgment and after a moment of consideration he replied. “Tell him to go but to stay close. His wings are still healing and he shouldn’t strain them, else they will take even longer to heal. The hour grows late—-we will stop for today.” 

 

Jon didn’t need to tell Drogon anything at all—the black dragon had been spending ever more time closely linked with Jon which mean that more often than not what Jon heard, so too did Drogon. It had come to the point that sometimes even Jon himself forgot that they were two creatures instead of one. Without another word spoken Drogon angled himself to glide out to sea, leaving Jon to Arli’s company once more.

 

“I lost my grip on his neck spines.” Jon said, after another long silence. Answering the red Priest’s earlier question. “ —- and I didn’t have my feet braced properly so when he rolled I came off.” 

 

“Again.” he added bitterly.

 

“You MUST learn to keep your grip, Jon. To predict Drogon’s movements before he makes them.” Arli replied intently, and beneath the priest’s frustration Jon could see his fear. It lingered behind his strange eyes and its presence made the red haired man look even more strained than usual. 

 

“ If you fall and Drogon isn’t fast enough to catch you, you will die. It’s safe enough here— but the same will not be true in Valyria.” Arli put one long fingered hand on Jon’s shoulder, and the heat of it on Jon’s skin bordered on painful. 

 

“There are dangers there where our only recourse will be flight. Things which we cannot fight. What you need is a proper saddle and harness—-but there are none of the old ones left here and no armorers yet remain who know how to make new ones even if by some miracle the materials could be gathered.”

 

“Dragons had saddles?” Jon asked in surprise. That was something he’d never known. Much was made of dragon riders in the history books but there was little ever mentioned about the particulars. The Dragonlords of Old Valyria had guarded their secrets jealously. Especially when it came to their dragons.

 

Arli huffed out a small laugh and turned. Clasping his hands in the trailing sleeves of his robes he nodded at Jon to follow him as he walked. 

 

“Yes, Jon. Dragons most certainly had saddles. Only a brave man—-or a stupid one— rides a fully grown dragon without a saddle.” he explained. 

 

“What’s so special about a dragon’s saddle that a leatherworker couldn’t make one now?” Jon asked, trying to understand why they couldn’t simply make what they needed if it would keep him out of the bay. 

 

“ A fine question,” Arli praised. “One which unfortunately has a complicated answer— but I will do my best to explain.” Their path was meandering, taking them to the far side of the island as they skirted the rocky shore. 

 

“A dragon’s saddle must be made with Valyrian steel for the fittings and with dragonskin as leather. Nothing else will serve. Can you guess why, Jon?” 

 

Jon frowned to himself. He didn’t much like guessing games but if it would get him an honest answer then he’d play whatever games the priest liked. “The heat?” was Jon’s tentative answer.

 

Arli nodded shallowly and smiled. “In part.” he acknowledged, but the priest did not leave the answer there and for once chose to explain himself in greater detail.

 

“Dragons run hot, that is true enough but they are also creatures of magic. It lives within them, in their very blood and bone. Dragonfire isn’t simply a physical thing—it isn’t ordinary fire, it is also magic. Powerful destructive magic.” 

 

Jon listened raptly, not daring to so much as make a sound lest Arli stop talking and deep inside himself a small part of him wished that Dany were there to hear the red priest’s words as well. If anyone had deserved such answers it was her. 

 

“Dragons scorch their food with Dragonfire for a reason. You see, Jon, every living thing contains magic. From the smallest ant to the largest dragon and Dragonfire breaks down the bonds of that magic and makes it consumable by the dragon. It’s why Dragonfire burns so hot—-it isn’t just fire. It is the essence of fire and destruction in its purest form.”

 

“Is that why Dragonfire is different colors depending on the dragon?” Arli looked surprised by his words but the older man nodded again and Jon could see that he’d pleased him with his unexpected insight. Jon tried not to feel too smug about it, but was only partially successful.

 

“Indeed. Much can be learned about a dragon and it’s rider from the color of their Dragonfire. Power, age, temperament. The state of the bond between the pair. All of that is reflected in the shading of the flame. Drogon’s fire is black because of your bond with him. Your magic combined with his own is a perfect match. The fire you create together is absolute destruction. Nothing will be able to withstand it.”

 

Arli’s smile became fierce then, and Jon saw the glint of something wrathful in his golden eyes for half a breath before it was gone again. “ Not even the flesh of other dragons.” 

 

“ There is only one type of Dragonfire that burns hotter and not even I have ever seen it. Nor do I ever wish to. “ Arli finished grimly. 

 

“However, that brings us back to your answer. A dragon’s saddle must be made of Valyrian steel and Dragonskin because anything else will begin to break down in very short order from proximity to their destructive magic. Ordinary materials will crumble to ash after a single gout of flame—even if it never touches them.” 

 

A thought occurred to Jon and he frowned and found himself speaking before he could stop himself. “But Dany chained Rhaegal and Viserion beneath the pyramid in Mereen, why didn’t they just melt their chains and leave?” 

 

“Because they were weak.” was the priest’s blunt reply. 

 

“Weak?” Jon said in surprise. How could a dragon ever be weak?

 

 

“Weak,” Arli said grimly. “They had no riders and they were stunted from lack of magic. At first they were too small, and then they were simply too weak to free themselves. Their chains held them fast because they forgot what freedom tasted like. They believed that the strength of that which held them fast was greater than the strength of their own desires and so that belief became reality. Those chains would never have held Drogon—even had Queen Daenerys been able to coerce him into the pit with his siblings. ” 

 

“Much of magic’s power lies in belief, Aegon Targaryen. “ Arli said, and there was a weight to his words that made the hair on the back of Jon’s neck stand on end. “Remember that, if you remember nothing else that I teach you. There is great power to be found in faith—-almost as much as can be found in blood.” 

 

“ When we reach Valyria I know where a proper harness might be found. Time will have had no effect on that which we seek—- but that’s only if we survive long enough to find it in the first place.“ 

 

 

“I’ll try harder tomorrow,” Jon said quietly as the two of them watched the sun begin to set. Jon once more aching under the crushing weight of responsibility for what lay ahead of them all. Of what lay ahead for HIM in particular. He near jumped out of his skin when he felt a hot hand lay itself on his shoulder, the grip of it shockingly comforting. 

 

“I know.” The priest said gently, and the absolute faith in Arli’s voice was almost enough to make Jon believe that they weren’t all heading off on a suicide mission. 

 

 

Almost.


	27. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secrets and shadows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're going to be exploring some of Sansa's motivations here, and I want to make it clear that I don't hate Sansa--but she's been through some things and she's also had False!Bran in her head messing with her. So. Buckle up.

The room was dark, the air within close and almost stuffy, doubly warmed by the fire that crackled in the hearth along one wall and by those within. Sansa watches the fire in solemn silence, one hand curved around a silver goblet of mead, a howling dire wolf etched into the silver along one side. The other lying limp in her lap as she watched the flickering dance of the flames. They’re beautiful—but that isn’t what holds Sansa’s focus so completely. Sansa’s mind is turned inward, as has become her habit of late. 

 

Since the black dragon’s abrupt arrival and equally abrupt departure Sansa has found herself at a crossroads. 

 

There are choices ahead of her that she must soon make, and she finds herself weary of the necessity of it. She is tired, not physically but in her very soul. Sansa feels old, as withered and ancient as Old Nan had ever been. 

 

It seems ridiculous to say such a thing; even if only in the privacy of her own mind but it is true. 

 

She is Queen Sansa of House Stark, First of her Name. The Winter Queen. The Red Wolf. Yet none of that alters the simple truth that Sansa carries in her most secret heart. She is old. Old in every way that matters and when she meets her own eyes in the looking glass every morning it isn’t the sweet face of the Maiden that looks back at her—it is the weary eyes of the Crone, worn down, jaded and full of shadows. 

 

Empty of anything but duty. 

 

Joyless.

 

Idly, Sansa rubs her fingers over the wolf etched into the side of her goblet and allows her mind to wander as it pleases. She thinks of Littlefinger, and then of Cersei and Ramsay. They’d all cut pieces of her away for themselves. Each of them in their turn, and now there is nothing left of her but tatters. Sad fragments of the girl she’d once been. She’d been happy once, safe and loved and full of hope. 

 

Physically, of course, she’s still a young woman. Of an age with other girls, most which are only just beginning to prepare for their own weddings and the lives that they’ll lead as wives and mothers. Yet for Sansa herself not even the concept of motherhood holds any appeal for her. 

 

The very idea of it sends a wave of revulsion through her body so powerful that her guts knot with fury and digust. Yet she’d wanted it so badly once. All those years ago when she’d begged her father to let her marry Joffrey. 

 

It seems like another life now—faded and far away and Sansa’s mind takes her back to the day of her flowering. 

 

She gives in and shuts her eyes and suddenly she can taste the acid bite of vomit in the back of her throat once more, she feels the yawning horror of waking to her bloody bedsheets and the certain knowledge that she’d run out of time. That she could no longer avoid the fate she’d so naively chosen for herself, blinded by her own ambition. 

 

Back and back she goes, back to the sorrow in Sandor Clegane’s sad, dark eyes when he looked at her, the warmth of his heavy hand on her shoulder as he’d guided her to Cersei’s morning room. In the crypt of Sansa’s memories the summer sun is shining in Queen Cersei’s long, golden hair and she looks just as she had that day.

 

Sansa herself is fourteen once more, terrified and betrothed to a monster and hiding her fear very very badly. Cersei looks back at Sansa from across her desk and for just a moment Sansa can see the tiniest flicker of genuine humanity in her poisonous green eyes. 

 

 _“ Permit me to share some womanly wisdom with you, on this very special day.”_ Cersei says, and her voice is the gentlest it’s ever been. Sansa hadn’t known at the time what strange, nameless emotion had been gleaming in Cersei’s eyes that day—but she knows it now. 

 

Knows it all too well.

 

 

It was pity. 

 

The Cersei of Sansa’s memories smiles crookedly at her and for a moment—just a moment, her smile is real and Sansa catches a fleeting glimpse of the woman Cersei must have once been. The woman who’d loved her twin enough to risk her life and the lives of her children by taking him to her bed. The woman who’d started a war to protect the people she loved. Fierce and brave and too clever by half and yet still doomed by her sex to wear the same shackles that locked themselves about Sansa’s own wrists from the moment her womb had awakened. 

 

A woman who’d been sold like a brood mare to a lecherous drunk, who had then spent their entire marriage insulting her dignity and honor with his every breath. A man who had spurned Cersei’s every attempt at coexistence in order to grieve for a woman who Sansa now knew had loathed him, a woman who had fled him to wed a man that the King had then slain—and who had died birthing that same man’s child, thus escaping his grasp forever.

 

The bitter truth was that Robert Baratheon had never loved Lyanna Stark, he had only ever loved the idea of her. The one thing he could never have, and thus the only thing he truly wanted. The only thing the fat old prick had ever really loved had been himself.

 

Sansa hadn’t seen the real Cersei hiding there in the Queen’s eyes at the time, and so she had missed her chance entirely. She’d let the brief moment when she might have made the queen into a sort of ally instead of an enemy slip through her fingers like water. Cersei’s hatred of Sansa had never been personal, Sansa sees that now—it had been born from her fear of Sansa’s power. 

 

Power over Joffrey, that was. Which was ridiculous, since Sansa had never had any to start with. No one but Margeary Tyrell had ever been able to manipulate Joffrey—and perhaps Tywin Lannister, but even Sansa knows that Lord Tywin’s grip on him had little to do with manipulation and a great deal to do with fear. 

 

Joffrey always was a coward.

Perhaps Sansa as she was now could have managed Joffrey, but she’d been far too young then in all the ways that mattered. Still just a little bird, desperately chirping to amuse the cats that surrounded her, each one waiting to tear her apart for their own amusement if her song faltered even for a moment.  
Sansa can see Cersei now, however, hidden away in the secret darkness of her memories of King’s Landing and she finds herself wondering what would have happened if the woman she’s become had the chance to meet the woman Cersei had been in that moment.  
They are more alike now than Sansa has ever felt comfortable admitting.

 _”The more people you love, the weaker you are. You’ll do things for them that you know you shouldn’t do. You’ll act the fool to make them happy, to keep them safe.”_

With her eyes closed Sansa can feel Cersei’s breath on her cheek again; smelling of Arbor Gold and the mint the Queen had chewed now and then to try and conceal the hint of alcohol on her breath.  
It still makes Sansa want to vomit, and she’d long ago sworn to herself that she would never drink wine. Only mead on social occasions and it is a vow she’s kept so far.  
_“Love no one but your children; on that front a mother has no choice” _Cersei’s voice croons next to her ear, and it feels so real for a moment that Sansa’s eyes suddenly fly open, her heart hammering in her chest like a rabbit’s in terror.__

__She half expects Cersei Lannister to be there, with that crooked smile on her beautiful face and that gods forsaken pity in her eyes again—but she isn’t. The room is still and empty of anything save Sansa herself and her hounds. King’s Landing is gone, and so is the ghost of Cersei Lannister. She lives now only in Sansa’s memories of her.  
There is only the crackle of the fire in Sansa’s hearth and the soft snores of the dogs that surround her, and slowly Sansa’s heartbeat slows to something approaching reasonable once more. _ _

__They’re all gone now. Cersei, Ser Jaime, Joffrey and Tommen, even gentle Myrcella, who had always been so kind to her. Sandor Clegane; who’d tried to help her in his gruff, terrible way. The most honest man she’d ever met. Ramsey and LIttlefinger and her poor, mad Aunt Lysa._ _

__Even the Dragon Queen._ _

__The royal and the ambitious, the fierce and the mad. Sons and daughters of prophecy and warriors of legend of them all it is Sansa who has survived. She takes a fierce joy in it. Sansa has earned her place and now the board belongs to her alone.  
Cersei was right about one thing, however. Love is a weakness. A noose, just waiting for the opportunity to pull tight and strangle the life from its victim and it is the reason Sansa had let Arya kill Littlefinger for her. _ _

__She’d put on a pretty show but she’d always known him for what he was. Sansa had loved him anyway, as much as it can be said that she’s ever loved anyone. Foolish, perhaps, but true. He was a weak, greedy, spiteful man but she had loved him and just as Cersei had warned —it was her love that killed him in the end.  
Petyr’s desire to possess Sansa had blinded him to the trap Sansa had ever so carefully laid for him. Her love was why he had to die. Sansa wants no part of love. It is a weakness she cannot afford.  
In one matter Cersei had been wrong. A mother does not necessarily love her children—that was Cersei’s weakness, not Sansa’s. _ _

__She knows it to be so from experience._ _

__While Jon was busy pleading their case to the Mad Queen, Sansa had birthed Ramsay’s son in the dark passages beneath Winterfell. Pushed him from her body, blood slick and squalling. Absolutely alone in the deepest, oldest part of the Stark crypts. Far from anyone who could find them. Her lips bitten raw and bloody from her struggle to remain silent. A silence she had maintained when she looked down into his tiny, sticky red face—still covered in her own blood._ _

__This helpless, tiny, red thing was her own child and when she looked upon him she’d felt nothing for him but loathing. He was only moments old, child of her body, flesh of her flesh and bone of her bone and Sansa hated him with every fiber of her being from the moment she laid eyes upon him.  
She'd briefly considered laying him down in one of the empty ancient tombs with the dust of his ancestors and simply walking away. No one would have heard his cries and no one would ever have found his corpse once they ceased. He would simply join the rest of the moldering Stark dead and it would have been as if he’d never been born at all. _ _

__

__Sansa had also imagined crushing his tiny little skull just to hear it crack like a duck egg against the stone walls—purely to spite Ramsay. Killing the boy would have allowed the last piece of Ramsay Bolton to fade into nothingness. The child’s death would robbed him of his precious legacy. House Bolton would have been shadows and dust forever. A fading footnote in history._ _

__

__Instead she’d swallowed her revulsion and picked him up, she’d forced the urge to weep and vomit away and she had gritted her teeth together until her jaw ached and nursed him at her own breast. Even though her skin had crawled just touching him. When he’d had his fill she’d wrapped him in her cloak and hid him away in the dark. She’d left him alone, with a tomb for a cradle and ghosts as his nursemaids, returning to him only to feed him and clean him just as a she-wolf would do with her pups._ _

__No-one had ever known that she’d been with child, that the the heir to the Winter Throne had been born amongst the dead. Not a single soul. Winter had served Sansa well — her gauntness had allowed her to conceal her belly, what little there was of it, with ease behind her heavy furs and layers. Her skill at stitching allowing her to alter her dresses herself and make her deception easier._ _

__Sansa had learned the art of misdirection from masters of the craft, and so dealing with the stolid, unimaginative Northern nobility wasn’t even a faint strain of her abilities. They saw what she wished them to see. No more and no less. Arya had concerned her—but in the end even she was blind._ _

__Arya saw what she wanted to see when it came to Sansa._ _

__Finding the wetnurse had been easy as well and Dame Hulda’s silence and complicity in Sansa’s plans had been purchased with a knighthood for her young son, to be given in due time when the child reached manhood and had completed the training that Sansa would quietly fund. Yet even Hulda didn’t know the true identity of the child she’d carried off to raise in the South.  
Only Sansa did.  
For the price of a good horse, a castle-forged steel sword and a promise Sansa’s secret was hidden away. Far from her sight —and out of her mind until the boy could be of use. _ _

__It wasn’t mercy that made Sansa spare his life. By then she’d had none left in her to offer him. Only utility; because with his birth Sansa had her heir and that meant that she need not wed again._ _

__She would be no man’s wife._ _

__

__Ramsay’s corpse was the only husband she would ever have. Let him be King from his grave for all the good it would do him. When the time came and the people cried out for an heir she would reveal to them the boy —with a fine tale to explain his absence and even if anyone doubted her?_ _

__Well, they would never say so aloud, and better a faint hint of bastardy than to be chained to another man who would use Sansa’s body for his own ends._ _

__Her flesh was hers alone, now and always. Circles within circles— wheel spins on, only now with Sansa at it’s hub.  
Regardless, Sansa is exhausted bit no matter how weary she is slumber eludes her entirely. Leaving her alone in the dark with her ghosts and her regrets. Not that sleep would prove any more pleasant than wakefulness, she thinks to herself as she sets her goblet down in the table by her chair. _ _

__

__Sansa is all too aware of what awaits her in her dreams —-and it is nothing good._ _

__

__She’s so distracted by her morbid thoughts that she nearly leaps out of her own skin when a great, short coated grey head nudges itself into her lap; nuzzling at her hand and whining softly for her attention._ _

__

__Sighing, Sansa lays her head on the top of the big dog’s head and scratches him behind one close-cropped velvety ear. She is immediately rewarded by a contented grumble and the shockingly loud sound of the dog’s massive tail thumping against the stone floor._ _

__

__“Naughty thing, —“ Sansa says softly as she looks tenderly down into the war dog’s pale brown eyes. “_ _

__

__“You near gave me an apoplexy, who’d look after you then?” she teases, and his doggy smile, all teeth and wrinkles is her reward. “Get her a dog, she’ll be happier for it.” Robert Baratheon had once said to Sansa’s father, and it was in all honesty the wisest advice the drunken lecher had ever given._ _

__

__The hound whines at her and tilts his massive head to the side to show Sansa where he wants her scratching fingers to go next. The look of contented love on his doggy face soothe something still raw and aching inside of Sansa and she finds herself looking around the room idly at her companions._ _

__

__There were precious few spots in Sansa’s chambers that weren’t already occupied by her dogs. All eight of them. They were massive beasts, not a single one weighing less than two hundred pounds. All of them with short, sleek coats, as grey as her house sigil and wide jaws that could crush bone to powder. They were wardogs, each and every one a blooded killer of men._ _

__

__Men, Women—and one particularly loathsome monster._ _

__

__

__Ramsay’s hounds, one and all—and now they belong to Sansa. The very thought of it makes something dark and vicious inside of Sansa’s breast crow with glee. They’d been the ones to ultimately rid her of her matrimonial burden, and the very hound whose soft tongue now laps at the inside of Sansa’s pale wrist had been the one that had chewed Ramsay Bolton’s face off as he screamed and begged Sansa for a mercy that had never come._ _

__

__Screaming as he’d made so many others scream._ _

__

__As he’d made her scream._ _

__

__Ramsay had made no secret of the fact that he’d enjoyed tormenting Sansa. He’d enjoyed using her body for his own purposes and her helplessness had pleased him more than her beauty ever had. Ramsay’s only joy in their marriage bed had come from painting black and blue bruises across Sansa’s pale flesh and from spilling her red blood over his ice white sheets. There were still livid red scars at the bottoms of Sansa’s feet where he’d cut her to hobble her at first. He’d hunted her through the castle that night, promising to let her be if she could evade him—then following the trail of her bloody footprints everywhere Sansa had tried to hide and laughing at her desperation and her suffering._ _

__

__He’d once let Myranda carve her name into Sansa’s shoulder for a lark and then he’d cut his own into the tender skin of the inside of Sansa’s thigh._ _

__Ramsey, in crude blocky letters. He’d rubbed ink into the wounds as Sansa wept from the pain so they would heal dark and clear. ‘Just in case she ever forgot who she belonged to’ he’d said._ _

__

__The simpleton hadn’t even spelled his own name correctly._ _

__

__Sansa’s body will carry the marks of Ramsay Bolton’s hands, fists, and his teeth for the rest of her days. That night had been the first, but far from the last. Beneath her fine dresses Sansa’s body is a map of scars, each one a memory that she would give anything to forget. He’s dead now, unable to hurt anyone ever again—-but Sansa doesn’t hate him any less for it. If anything it only infuriates her more. Ramsay Bolton is dead, but Sansa suffers on._ _

__

__Ramsay was dead, but his hounds had remained—and so Sansa had taken them for her own._ _

__

__The castle folk had been none too pleased about her choice to keep them instead of putting them down and Sansa couldn’t truly blame them for it. The smallfolk knew all too well to what use Ramsay’s dogs had been put and the idea of them as their Queen’s companions had strained their indulgence of Sansa’s —peculiarities— to the breaking point._ _

__

__Yet Sansa would not give them up. Eventually they had given way and now where Sansa went so too did her pack. Trotting at her heels and arranging themselves about her throne when she held public audience. What need had Sansa of a Queensguard when she had her pack at her side?_ _

__

__The scratching at her door startles Sansa to her feet and sets off a chorus of growls from the dogs arrayed around her. Their eyes are fixed on the door and Sansa frowns. She’s cautious as she approaches the door, wary even here in Winterfell where she should be safest. It could be an assassin, it could be Arya._ _

__

__Sansa opens the door and what is on the other side is something she’d never even considered._ _

__

__Ghost_ _

__

__She is glad to see him, glad to bury her fingers in his snowy fur and smell winter in the air around him. Her hounds are still uneasy and growling but Sansa quiets her pack with a snap of her fingers and a push of her mind and they immediately obey her and go still. Acceping the dire wolf’s presence amongst them begrudgingly. Ghost looks uneasy as well as he steps into the room and he flinches when the door shuts behind him but Sansa pays it no mind. She’s too happy._ _

__With Ghost there it was almost like having Lady with her again. Ghost had chosen a true Stark at last. Perhaps he had tired of sharing Jon with the dragon that was unfortunately her cousin’s birthright—-and now Sansa had what should have been hers all along. A direwolf to stand beside her, proof positive of her right to rule._ _

__

__This is where he belongs, Sansa thinks as she kneels to bury her face in Ghosts snowy fur._ _

__

__He smells like home. Like victory, and Sansa’s smile is wide and bright and sharp as the fangs of the wolf she clings to._ _

__

__Long live the wolves of Winterfell._ _


	28. Arya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fire cannot kill a dragon.

The sun is setting over the city of Braavos and as Arya watches it it sink into the waves from the roof of the House of Black and White she can’t help but shudder. It isn’t the cold that troubles her; the air is still muggy and warm even this late in the day. She isn’t that lucky. 

 

They’ve been at the temple for the better part of a month now and Arya Has been growing more and more restless by the day, plagued by an itch that no matter what she does --she can’t seem to scratch. Sometimes the urge to move, to GO is so strong that it actually makes her skin crawl— as if there were insects just beneath it, skittering over her bones. It’s an urgency that Arya can neither explain nor justify. No matter what she does, no matter how hard she tries to distract herself and put the feeling from her mind—her thoughts always seem to make their way back to to the place that has begun to haunt her dreams.

 

Valyria. 

 

The home—and tomb—of the mighty Dragonlords. The source of magic as well as every wonder and every horror in every single story that Arya has ever heard or read. A place that nobody but the Stone Men have laid eyes on and survived since the day that the Ruin put an end to the Valyrian Empire forever; the unexpected cataclysm that had in a single day destroyed an entire people.

All but the Targaryens; thanks to the prophecy of Daenys the Dreamer. House Targaryen and their dragons had survived—for a while, at least. 

Arya is afraid of what they might find there in the ruins, only a fool wouldn’t be, but—she can’t deny that she wants to go regardless; wants it so fiercely sometimes it feels almost as if it’s a physical hunger. She *aches* with it—and for the life of her she can’t seem to sort out WHY. 

She’s never wanted to go anywhere more in all her life than she does Valyria and even to her it makes absolutely no sense whatsoever. She’s no Targaryen, the only useful magic she has is her ability to use the faces. An ability shed won by her own merit; not by birthright. There’s no Valyrian blood in the Tullys or the Starks at all so it's ridiculous for Arya to feel the way she does—- but that doesn’t change a poxy thing. She feels what she feels and all she can do is accept it. It will either explain itself, or it won’t, and either way fretting about in the meantime Is about as useful as teats on a boar hog. It helps though that Arya know that she won’t have much longer to wait. 

 

They’re leaving soon. She can see it in Jon’s eyes when he drags himself to his bed every night; limping and bruised. Half drowned and so exhausted that only the night before he’d actually fallen asleep at the table in the middle of supper. Arya found him face down by his bowl of thick seafood chowder—spoon still in hand— his long dark hair half in the bowl. The dark circles under his eyes had made something in Arya’s heart twist in misery. 

 

She hadn’t wanted to wake him; she would far rather have let him be; but Jon wouldn’t thank her in the morning for his stiff neck and aching back so she’d had no choice—she could hardly move him by herself. She’s strong, but she's also small and well aware of the fact that there was no way she could move a man Jon’s size alone. 

At least not in one piece, and unlike Black Walder Frey, she preferred Jon alive and in one— if somewhat inconvenient—piece.

 

Eventually Arya’d managed to rouse Jon, though he was barely coherent with exhaustion; and the two of them went staggering towards his bed like a pair of drunks. By some miracle Arya had managed to get Jon into the bed without falling on her face or killing either of them in the process and Jon was out again the moment his head hit the pillow. No amount of prodding would wake him again, so it was left to Arya to pull her sleeping brother’s boots off so he wouldn't track mud into the sheets and cover him with the thin blanket that lay at the foot of the bed. 

She’d done her level best to get some of the food out of his hair as well but Arya was eventually forced to give it up as a lost cause. Jon would have to sort it out in the morning for himself. When she was finished she found herself sitting on the edge of the bed for a time afterwards, just watching Jon as he slept.

It surprised her not at all that even in his sleep Jon still frowned—or at least he did before Arya began to gingerly stroke his ever-lengthening black hair. Then his frown melted away —like snow in the spring thaw. His smile made her smile too, entirely against her will. 

Jon had done much the same for Arya herself when she was little. She’d been six, and it had been her bad luck to catch a truly nasty case of the red spots. She’d been so miserable at the time that nothing could console her. She’d itched beyond belief and her head had hurt and her body had ached and no matter what she’d done or how many blankets her mother brought her or how high Lady Catelyn had stoked the fire —Arya just couldn’t get warm. 

 

All Arya had wanted in the world at the time was Jon—-but her mother hadn’t wanted to let him into the sickroom with her. Arya had begged and pleaded but Lady Stark had been unmoved until Arya’s fever had spiked dangerously high overnight and her condition had worsened. Arya’s misery had a last outweighed her mother’s loathing of Jon Snow and Lady Stark had begrudgingly given in and let Jon in to see Arya at last. 

It had been Jon that sat with Arya after that, for hours and hours while she shivered and clung to him like he’d vanish if she let him go. It was Jon that stroked Arya’s sweaty hair until she could sleep and Jon who’d sung her cradlesongs to drive her fever induced nightmares away. Now it was her turn to play Nursemaid and as she looked down at her sleeping brother Arya found that she minded it not at all. 

There was nobody in all the world Arya loved more than Jon Snow—and that had been true long before her father’s death. All of them had a person or people they they’d gravitated towards in the their family— Sansa’d had their mother, Rob had their father and Theon, Bran had Rickon…..but Jon had been Arya’s person; and he always would be, no matter what blood he had or what crown he wore. 

 

Jon Snow was Arya’s brother and she loved him with a ferocity that sometimes terrified her. Loved him so much that she would have killed a thousand men just to get back the sword he’d given her. 

 

Her Needle. 

It was the one thing Arya could never give up, just like Jon himself. 

 

Needle had always been more than just a sword for Arya. As long as she’d still had Needle then that meant that Jon was with her too. When Arya had been frightened, when she was cold and alone and lost—-it was Needle that comforted her. Protected her. Needle— and the memory of the person who’d given it to her. 

 

Her brother.

 

As Arya had stared down at Jon, curling her fingers idly though his hair she’d realized abruptly that it was longer now than it had ever been before in her memory. Long enough that Jon was beginning to look rather like an ill-tempered lion. The image of it made her smile again.

He’d changed so much since they were children—Arya thought to herself, but in some ways not at all. 

 

. 

 

She worries for him, more than she’d like to admit. Jon is changing—she can see it in his eyes. In how he carries himself. Jon walks more heavily than before; as if he carries some heavy burden that nobody else could see but which is crushing him beneath its weight regardless. He’s distracted as well, his sad dark eyes more often than not focused, not on the world around him, but instead on the horizon. Staring at something only he can see. Something terrible. 

 

It is a burden that Arya wishes she could carry for him—but she can’t. She can’t and she knows it. All she can do is help him as best she can and make sure that he knows that he isn’t alone. 

 

 

Burden or not—they have to leave, and soon. Their welcome in The Titan’s city is wearing dangerously thin and growing more-so by the day.

Arya sees the mood of the city and the folk within it all too clearly when she goes out to listen to the people. A tactic she’d found incredibly useful when it came to learning how people really felt about what was happening around them. Arya is always careful; never using the same Face twice... but each time she goes out the whispers are louder and the atmosphere of the city itself has grown darker.

 

The Braavosi are afraid—dragons do have that effect on people—and after what happened to King’s Landing Arya can’t blame them for being afraid. There is a fully grown dragon in their city and they are all too aware that if its rider chooses to do so it could descend upon their beautiful city in a rain of fire and fury and kill them all at any moment. 

 

Jon and his dragon could their beautiful city to ash, dust, and fading memory and there is nothing whatsoever the folk of the city can do about it. They are helpless—-and as Arya has learned nothing foments fury, spite and rebellion so well as helplessness. Fear will soon become hate. 

 

They must be gone before that happens. 

 

Their fears are well justified. Arya thinks that Drogon is beautiful; and the black dragon can be sweet when he chooses to be—and so far he has always been kind to Arya. However she never allows herself to forget that he will always be a dragon— and a dragon is never tame. 

 

A dragon is never safe. They are fire made flesh and just as fire can cook a man’s meals and warm his homes so too can it consume and destroy and so it is the same with dragons who are the embodiment of their element. Magnificence and monstrosity all bound up in one creature. 

 

The moon is rising, the sun long gone, but Arya is still reluctant to go inside and seek her own bed. She knows what awaits her in her dreams, and cowardly though it may be she wants to avoid facing them as long as she can. 

 

Almost as if summoned by her thoughts of him a shadow descends from the moonlit sky to land by the temple with a thud that Arya can feel through the stone of the temple itself. Arya’s heart begins to beat faster as the black dragon ambles towards her. So massive that the roof of the temple puts him comfortably face to face with Arya, who freezes in place as his massive horned head comes close to her. 

She feels the heat of his breath against her chest as he sniffs her and then offers up a quiet chirring greeting. Arya doesn’t quite know what to do. Drogon has never done anything like this before. Any time Arya and Drogon had interacted before now Jon had always been in attendance as well, serving as go-between for the two fo them. 

 

Arya is alone now. Alone with a dragon; and a small, hysterical part of her brain is screaming in pure animal terror. This could go terribly wrong in a multitude of increasingly awful ways —but Arya pushes her fear away forcefully. Grabs hold of it and shoves it so far down inside herself that she hopes it will never see the light of day again. 

 

Drogon waits, seemingly sensing Arya’s struggle and watches her with a patient look in his scarlet eyes. When Arya finally reaches out to cautiously put a hand on his waiting nose she can’t help but think that the look in his eyes is an odd sort of pride.

 

“I hope you know I don’t have any cows for you.” Arya says conversationally as she carefully pets the small scales by his nose. She has to be careful; because unlike Jon, the heat of certain parts of Drogon’s body can still burn her. 

 

Drogon huffs, and his breath is just short of painfully hot. It makes Arya wonder if that’s what a dragon’s laughter sounds like. Either way he doesn’t seem offended by Arya’s joke, so she forces herself to keep talking to—and petting— him. 

 

“Not that I don’t appreciate the company but—well—“ Arya pauses, uncertain how to frame her words to avoid offending the dragon currently well within biting range. One snap of those teeth and Arya was finished. Arya was doing her best to meet Drogon’s eyes without fear but it was more difficult than she liked and growing increasingly moreso. They almost seemed as if they were glowing.” — I don’t understand what you want from me. I’m not a Targaryen. I can’t hear you like Jon.”

 

Arya might have said something else, but that was the moment that Drogon’s eyes seemed to ignite , the light of them catching her and holding her like a snake with a mouse and her world dissolved into fire and pain. Pain like nothing Arya had ever felt before. It felt as if she was burning alive from the inside. Melting away into nothingness in a sea of fire. Trapped in her own mind by cage of pain and light.

 

_I thought you were stronger than this, little wolf. How disappointing._

 

The inhuman voice seems to come from everywhere at once and nowhere at all and Arya knows that she is screaming, she can feel it shredding throat to ribbons but she can’t hear it over the roar of the inferno inside her. 

It howls. 

 

So does she. 

 

It’s the condescension of the voice and callousness at her suffering that rouses Arya’s fury and that fury is what finally allows her a toehold on her sanity amidst the pain chaos that is consuming her mind. The same stubbornness that made her get up again and again when the Waif beat her. When she was blind and helpless and starving and all she had to do was just—-give in. She’d refused to be broken then and she refuses to be broken now. Arya’s screams abruptly shift from pained to infuriated. 

 

She isn’t weak. She is Arya Stark of Winterfell and she won’t die without a fight. There is no surrender inside of her, no retreat. Only fury.

 

If Drogon wants her dead then she’ll drag him down into the dark with her. 

 

Fuck weakness. 

Fuck surrender. ‘

Fuck fire…..but most importantly, fuck dragons and fuck this dragon in particular. 

 

Arya at last pushes back, the vast sea of fury inside her washing over her like a scalding tide and she latches on Drogon with her mind—-doing her level best to burn him with her as they struggled against one another. The fire built and built between them, hotter and hotter until suddenly it stopped as abruptly as it began and she was a left floating in what seemed like an endless white nothingness.

 

_"Fire cannot kill a dragon." _It was the same voice as before, but now it doesn’t hurt to hear it. There’s no pain and somehow Arya knows who it belongs to.__

____

__

 

It’s Drogon. 

_"What did you do to me?"_

 

_"You saved my life. It was only right to give you a gift in return". ___

____

____

_"A gift?! THAT was a gift? You tried to kill me!"_

 

 _"No, I didn’t. If I wished you dead— you would be. If you were too weak you would have died, but that is the way of the world. The weak die, the strong survive. You are not weak and so you did not die—as I knew you would. I would never have given you the gift if I did not believe you strong enough to take it. I am pleased however. Jon would have been very cross with me if you had died."_  
.* 

 

_"You’re an arsehole, has anybody ever told you that before?"_

 

Arya felt the growl more than heard it, and beneath it was a genuine thread of anger. That was a step too far, Arya realized. There was a line between bravery and stupidity and she’d managed to come perilously close to crossing it. 

 

 _"No, and you never will again if you wish to live"._

 

Arya debated saying she was sorry—but ultimately decided on silence instead. She wasn’t sorry. She’d meant what she said, and she wasn’t going to take it back. _"Stubborn creature. This will be the only time I can speak to you myself—I am not your dragon. That privilege belongs to another. I hope my gift brings you joy, Arya Stark. You are worthy of it as I knew you would be."_

Arya only had half a breath to try and understand what Drogon had just told her before the black dragon’s rumbling command ripped her out of the strange white infinity that the two of them had shared. 

 

 _"Wake up, Little Sister."_

 

When Arya opened her eyes Drogon was looking down at her smugly, and when she met his gaze her heart skipped a beat at the reflection she saw in his gleaming scarlet eyes. A familiar girl stared back at her--but her dark hair and silvery eyes were gone and in their place was hair of shining silver-white and dark purple eyes, eyes the exact shade of the good amethyst from White Harbor that her mother had been so fond of. 

 

Arya stared at her reflection in shock for a heartbeat, and all she could think of as the world grayed out around her was that she was glad Sansa wasn’t there to see it as she fainted dead away for the first time in her life.


	29. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fire and Blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are picking up, there's only one more chapter that will be taking place in Braavos. We're heading to Valyria, folks.

Jon has always thought of himself as a reasonable man, and he’s done his best to be a good one as well. He knows that he hasn’t always succeeded, but he has tried, and all he can do is hope that in the grand accounting of things his efforts have mattered—but as he looks down at his little sister’s pale and motionless body while Arli carefully washes the layers of black ash from her now ice-white skin Jon doesn’t feel much like a good man at all. 

 

He feels like a failure. 

 

That’s his baby sister lying there on that bed, naked as her name-day and so unnaturally still that something inside his soul withers and aches to see it. Arya, the babe he’d snuck into the nursery to see even though he’d known it meant a hiding from Lady Stark if he were caught. The little girl he’d learned to sew for—all so that he could make her a toy dragon for her third nameday and Jon knows in the marrow of his bones that it is his fault that she’s there. 

 

His fault that she’s hurt. 

 

That she’s been changed. 

If he’d never let Arya come with him on this gods-forsaken mission to start with she’d still be safe in Westeros and Drogon would never have done —-whatever it is that he’s done to her. 

This is Jon’s fault, his failure, but it is Arya who has paid the price for it. 

 

Jon doesn’t recognize his own voice when he finally manages to force himself to speak. It rings hollow and strange in his ears and he can’t recall it having ever sounded so cold before. So empty.

“ Will she live, priest?”

Arli is silent for a few moments, carefully wiping the ash from Arya’s deceptively peaceful face. He seems as if he’s ignoring Jon entirely but Jon knows he isn’t. Arli will speak when he’s chosen his words as well as he can and not a moment before and he won’t be rushed—not even by Jon—so all he can do is wait. 

 

When the red priest does speak, Jon finds to his great regret that his words bring him no comfort at all. 

 

“In one way, yes,-“ The older man says cautiously as he dips the cloth in his hand into the ceramic bowl beside him to rinse away the collected ash. Ash that was all that now remained of Arya’s clothing after Drogon had done-- whatever this was to her. “—and in another, no.”

 

Jon grits his teeth so hard that he’s surprised they don’t crumble to dust in his mouth from the pressure. The red haired man’s non-answer stokes his already barely contained fury to new hights. Perhaps sensing Jon’s rapidly eroding patience Arli pauses in his work to meet Jon’s eyes solemnly. 

 

“Your sister’s heart still beats and as far as I can tell it will continue to do so—but I fear that the girl she was an hour ago is gone forever. What remains will be someone new, for better or worse, and it’s unfortunately impossible to say which it will be for the moment. “ The priest’s tone is conciliatory, and kinder than Jon has ever heard before.

 

“She could wake and be entirely like her previous self or so close to it that it makes no difference—or she could bear no resemblance at all to her previous self,” The older man says gently.“ Ultimately it will be up to your sister to decide who she is when she wakes.”

 

That isn’t what Jon wants to hear. Not at all, but instead of exploding with rage he forces himself to take a slow, steadying breath, then another after it, and another after that. It doesn’t help at all because Jon’s heart is still thumping in his ears like a war drum and the world around him still seems perilously far away and while he can feel the dim glow of Drogon in the back of his mind, the black dragon’s presence has never felt as small as it does now.

 

“—but she WILL wake. You’re certain?” he presses. 

 

Arli is watching him warily now; and Jon can see unease begin slowly creeping across the red priest’s fox-like face. “She will.” the older man replied quietly.

 

“Tell me what Drogon did to her.” Jon demanded, and his coldly spoken words leave no room for argument or prevarication; and for once Arli answers him without hesitation. 

 

“Have you ever wondered how our people managed to establish ties with dragons when all others who tried it failed?” Arli asked, turning his attention back to tending to Arya….perhaps to avoid looking at the storm currently brewing in Jon’s dark eyes. 

 

“No.” Jon replied curtly, his voice clipped and impatient. 

 

Arli paused, jaw tightening at Jon’s tone but he went on regardless, choosing to ignore it. “What your dragon did to your sister is how the relationship between the people of Valyria and their dragons came to be. There are many version of the story of course—as there always are with ancient tales— but the one that I will tell you now is the truest of them.” 

 

“Get on with it.” Jon growled, tired of Arli’s prevarication— and he didn’t miss the flicker of irritation in Arli’s golden eyes at being rushed. The priest doesn't like to be hurried but for the moment Jon is past caring about what the older man likes or doesn't like. He wants answers and he wants them NOW.

“As you wish.” Arli retorts tartly, more harsh with Jon than he's ever been before and Jon notices from the corner of his eye that the fire in the hearth seems to surge brighter as the red priest’s temper rises. 

 

“The tale begins with a death. The death of a dragon—and it ends in Fire and Blood. Long ago Men and Dragons were mortal enemies. They despised us, and we despised them, and not entirely without reason. They were predators and men and the beasts they tamed for themselves were their prey. They stole from our flocks and they raided our fishing nets. Burnt our homes and ate the foolish and the unwary. Dragons do not recognize ownership as people do. Whatever a dragon is strong enough to take belongs to the dragon that takes it. Strength is their only law. ” Arli’s voice settled into a smooth, almost soothing flow the longer he spoke and Jon finds himself sinking into it until he can see the story unfolding in his mind’s eye.

 

“Not everyone hated them of course. Dragons have always been as beautiful as they are fierce—but most did. It is in Man’s nature to hate and fear what cannot be controlled. One summer day a shepherd’s son was searching a mountain pass for a lost ewe. He didn’t find the ew, not even her carcass —what he found instead was a ruined dragon’s nest with only one egg still whole— and it was in the midst of hatching.” 

 

“The others had been crushed already and lay in shards nearby, the hatchlings inside stomped to pieces beside them. The remaining egg had been mostly hidden beneath the scorched remnants of a dead ox’s ribcage, and so by chance it was spared it's siblings fate.” Arli gently covered Arya with a blanket, gazing down at her with an expression that Jon couldn’t quite put a name to on his face. 

 

He only knew that he liked it not at all.

 

” For a time at least, but it was only a momentary reprieve. Dragon hatchlings are fragile creatures, and without its parents the hatchling would surely die —and those parents were nowhere to be found. The shepherd boy knew that their absence could only mean that they were dead. No dragon was ever born that would abandon its nest and eggs willingly. Perhaps they died by accident or in a fight with other dragons over territory. It is impossible to say--but they were gone and with no one left to protect the nest--- men had found it. It was their boots that had shattered the eggs and crushed the life from the other hatchlings.” 

 

“The shepherd boy knew that he should do the same. That he should kill the dragon before it could hatch—but he had a gentle heart and as he took the scarlet and gold egg up in his hands he found that he could not bring himself to do it. It hatched as he held it and the first face that the newborn dragon saw was the boy’s and one look into the hatchling’s trusting golden eyes was all it took for the boy to lose his heart to the creature in his hands. After that day he did all he could to protect the hatchling. To teach it and comfort it. The mountains became their playground and never once did the boy ask the dragon to be anything but itself. “

 

“It grew swiftly, as dragons are wont to do —and soon it was full grown and so too was the boy. They were Man and Dragon, but the hatred that consumed the others of their kind was absent from their hearts. There was no room for it amidst their joy in one another. They were not bound as you are to Drogon. They could not speak to one another, but love does not always require words and love they had in abundance. “ Arli paused and the silence jarred Jon abruptly from whatever trance Arli’s mellow, smooth voice had lulled him into. 

 

“ What does love have to do with anything?” Jon spat impatiently. He didn’t like how easy it had been to fall into Arli’s voice, forgetting all but the tale the red priest was weaving for him. He hadn’t even felt it happen.

 

“Everything, Aegon Targaryen,” Arli retorted angrily. His voice suddenly filled with an ominous darkness. “—everything.” The priest whispered softly, the anger fading from his voice as he looked from Arya to the crackling fire.

 

“In those long ago days it was the Ghiscari that ruled the realms of men. They were slavers and the folk of Valyria were their helpless prey. It came to pass that a slaver set his sights on the shepherd boy’s village and one dark night they fell upon them like a pack of hungry wolves. Blood ran in rivers and the weeping of the women as they were marched toward the slave ships filled the air as thickly as the smoke from their burning homes. “

 

“The young man saw the fire and came down from the mountains to try and aid his kin. He failed. He survived the attack and somehow managed to evade the raiders—but none of his kin managed the same. He found his mother lying dead in the ruins, her child-heavy belly cut open and the babe cut to pieces beside her. His father died with a club in one hand and the other reaching out for her. It was then that the red dragon, who he had named Syrax, arrived. Summoned by the smell of blood and smoke on the wind he found his protector kneeling in the ruins, sorely wounded and weeping for all that he had lost—and just as love had once moved the shepherd boy so too did it move the dragon. Syrax reached out with his mind to the man who had shown him such kindness, who had raised him and loved him and who had never asked anything of him in return for his care— and because he could not bear to see him so alone he attempted the impossible."

 

"Using all the magic he could muster the red dragon burnt away everything inside of the boy’s mind and heart that separated the two of them. Their minds meeting at last in the conflagration and so they bound themselves to one another, becoming one creature where before there were two and with one voice they sang a song of vengeance. Of terrible retribution. Together they rained fire and death down on the Ghiscari with a fury that the world had never seen before. The shepherd’s son became the first Dragonlord of Valyria, and in time Syrax the Red had his own hatchlings. Hatchlings who chose their partners from amongst the Dragonlord’s sons and daughters—-and thus began our empire. With dragons we drove back the Ghiscari, and we put and end to them and to the vile slave trade that was their obsession.“

 

Arli reached out and took up a lock of Arya’s silver hair, smiling faintly as he watched it slip through his fingers. “ Dragons change men by their very presence. A dragon’s magic is destructive, as I told you before. It is generally a slower process, of course, but the closer one is to a dragon the faster the changes begin to occur. Have you not noticed the spreading silver in your own hair, your grace? It is not age that is causing it. You will look much as your sister does now soon enough. The more magic you use the more it will reshape you it’s image. It is inevitable for a dragonrider. It happened all at once for your poor sister because your dragon gave her the potential to bond with a dragon of her own one day. It takes a great deal of raw power to do such a thing. Only twelve dragons in all of recorded history have ever attempted it. Only eight of which succeeded. She survived the process and that means she will wake—-eventually.” 

 

“But why! Why would he do that when there are no more fucking dragons!” Jon thundered, his temper at last getting the better of him and jarring him into restless movement. He paced the small room, fury building with each step. “ Drogon is the last dragon there will ever be!”

 

“That is far from the case .” Arli said mildly. 

 

“Your dragon is gravid, your Grace.” 

 

“What?”Jon said as he froze in place mid-step, whirling to stare at the priest. His rage forgotten entirely in the face of his shock. 

 

“Gravid, “Arli answered helpfully. “— as in carrying eggs.”

 

“Drogon—-is female?” It seemed such a banal thing to say, even to Jon’s own ears, and he couldn’t help but cringe internally to hear it; but amidst the chaos of his mind it was the first coherent thought he’d been able to express. 

 

The look of supreme frustration on Arli’s face was almost enough to make Jon laugh in spite of of his mortification— but the urge was gone almost as soon as it appeared. 

 

“Dragons aren’t exclusively male or female. They can play either reproductive role as they please. Humans are the ones who insist on arbitrary titles. A dragon is a dragon. However to answer your question—no, Drogon isn’t ‘female’ by preference. Nurturing doesn’t come easily to him I believe, but as the largest and strongest of the three it makes sense that it is he is the one who was chosen a to produce the eggs. It is a taxing process.“ 

 

“So—all of this was because he wanted Arya to have one of the eggs?” Jon struggled to wrap his mind around the idea of Arya with a dragon. It wasn’t a particularly comforting thought. Jon loved his little sister with all his heart but she’d always been more than a little wild. Fiercer than all the rest of them combined. Arya with a dragon could be a disaster of incredible proportion. 

 

“What if she doesn’t want a bloody dragon! Did you ever think of that? Did Drogon?” Jon said angrily, and the look of appalled shock on Arli’s handsome face said clearly that the idea had never so much as crossed his mind. After all, who WOULDN’T want a dragon?

 

“What if she shouldn’t have one? “ Jon added. “ I love my sister, priest, do not mistake me. With all my heart I love her—but there is a darkness in Arya that I cannot simply pretend doesn’t exist!” Jon hated that those words had ever passed his lips—but they were the truth. He could not deny it.

 

“There is darkness in all of us, your grace.” Arli objected, seemingly offended on Arya’s behalf.

 

“Aye, but all of us don’t have dragons!”

 

Arli arched one scarlet brow. “You believe her unworthy of the gift?” The older man asked incredulously. 

 

“No!—“Jon spat, but then he paused. He forced himself to look beyond his own affection for his sister and instead approach situation logically. “—yes.” He admitted quietly. 

 

“ Arya is quick to anger and slow to forget. She can be cruel when she chooses to be—and combining that temper of hers with a dragon—I fear it can only end in disaster. Dany burnt a city to the ground in the name of revenge for someone she loved. Arya would burn the world to ash and dust to do the same. The only person I can think of less suitable to have a dragon is perhaps my other sister Sansa.”

 

“If I could get up I’d punch you in the face for saying that, you absolute prick.” rasped a voice as rough as a raven’s caw from the bed. Jon’s heart nearly stopped in his chest as he looked into Arya’s wide open purple eyes. 

 

“Arya! I —“ Jon’s tongue failed him as he realized that Arya must have heard what he’d said. All of it. “ I’m sor-“ 

 

She cut him off with a snort and a rude gesture that would have mortified Lady Stark. It eased Jon more than he had words for. Purple eyes and silver hair or no, that was still his Arya in that bed. “Shut up, you git. You’re not WRONG—but it’s still a shit thing to say about me. Especially to this fluttering, fancified turd.” 

The glare Arli offered Arya could have peeled paint, but all his fury won him from Jon’s little sister was a tired but toothy grin. 

“I suddenly see your point.” The priest growled sullenly, folding his arms as he glared down at Arya like he was imagining pitching her out of the nearest window. 

 

Preferably head first. 

 

Jon wasn’t entirely sure if the two of them liked or loathed one another—-but whichever it was, for the moment it didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was that his sister was alive. Alive and still herself. 

Jon perched himself awkwardly on the edge of the bed and to his dismay he found that looking into Arya’s changed eyes was—unsettling. Enough so that he had to look away, focusing instead on the curve of her cheek or the smudge of ash still lingering on the skin of her temple. 

 

Those purple eyes reminded him painfully of Dany, and his mind wanted to skitter away from the very thought of her name. Dany’s loss was a wound inside of him that had yet to even begin to truly heal and sometimes Jon feared that it never would. He missed her. Every day, with every beat of his heart. He missed her razor wit and her humor, her gentle smile and her kindness and the way she’d said his name as if it were something precious. 

 

Jon may have put a knife into her heart— but by doing so he’d put one into his own as well. Dany was beyond suffering now, but Jon’s was just beginning —-and he would have a lifetime to miss her. 

 

Dany may have forgiven him but Jon knew that he would never be able to forgive himself.

 

“I’m tired.” Arya rasped, and Jon could already see her eyes beginning to flutter closed even as the words passed her lips. 

 

“Go to sleep then.” he said, stroking her hair gently as he’d done when she was small. 

 

“I’ll be right here when you wake up again.” 

 

“ ‘m not a baby,” Arya slurred back, still fighting sleep.

 

“No, you’re not—-but look what happens when I leave you by yourself.” Jon said wryly in return and he didn’t even try to avoid the pinch Arya gave him in retaliation. 

 

“Arse.” 

 

Before Jon could reply, Arya had drifted off again. He stroked her hair slowly and then looked briefly to Arli who was watching the pair of them thoughtfully. “You can go now, priest.” he said before looking back down at his sleeping sister. 

 

“I’ll stay with her.” 

 

“As you please, your grace.” Arli acknowledged, offering him a shallow bow. “ I’ll come back in a while with something for you both to eat when she wakes again. “ Jon said nothing at all as the older man left the room. The only thing that mattered him at the moment was the girl on the bed. 

 

—-and perhaps the ghosts of his memories.


End file.
